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Worh by the Author and Translator of this Volume^ 
 Recently Published: 
 I. THE IDEAL IN ART. 
 II. ITALY {ROME AND NAPLES). 
 in. ITALY {FLORENCE AND VENICE). 
 
 With the fa'vor of the public^ the foUoiving ivill^ in time, be 
 issued : 
 
 I. THE PHILOSOPHY OF ITALIAN ART. 
 n. THE PHILOSOPHY OF ART IN THE LOW 
 COUNTRIES. 
 Ill A neiv edition of THE PHILOSOPHY OF ART. 
 IK ENGLISH LITERATURE. 
 
 Leypoldt & Holt, Publishers, 
 
 451 IBrooixie Street, Ne-w York. 
 
ITALY 
 
 FLORENCE AND VENICE 
 
 H-. 
 
 i>p1^ 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF 
 
 J-v^- 
 
 h'^ T a I n e 
 
 BY 
 
 V 
 
 J . D U R A N D 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 LEYPOLDT & HOLT 
 
 I 869 
 

 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by 
 
 LEYPOLDT & HOLT, 
 
 In the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 
 Southern District of New Yo k. 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 S!^ 
 
 Stereotyped by Little, Rennie & Co., 
 645 & 647 Broadway, New York. 
 
OONTE]srTS, 
 
 BOOK I. 
 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FROM ROME TO PERUGIA.— THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA.-THE APEN- 
 NINES.— SCENERY 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 PERUGIA.- PRODUCTIONS, MANNERS, AND CUSTOMS OF THE 
 EARLY RENAISSANCE.— MYSTIC ART.-FRA ANGELICO.— PERU- 
 GINO.— LE CAMBIO.— THE VALLEY OF PERUGIA 6 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ASSISI.— VILLAGES AND THE PEASANTRY.— THE THREE CHURCHES. 
 —GIOTTO AND DANTE.— CONCORDANCE OF CHRISTIAN MYSTI- 
 CISM WITH GOTHIC ART.— AN ENTHUSIASTIC IMAGINATION 
 COMPATIBLE WITH BARBARISM 16 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 POLITICAL CONDITION.— DIFFICULTIES AND RESOURCES.— DISPOSI- 
 TION OF THE MIDDLE CLASS.— PREDOMINANCE AND PROGRESS 
 OP THE CONSTITUTIONAL AND LIBERAL PARTY.— SYMPATHY 
 BETWEEN ITALY AND FRANCE.— INCON^T^NIENCES AND AD- 
 VANTAGES OF MODERN CENTRALIZATION 28 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FROM PERUGIA TO SIENNA.— ASPECT OF SIENNA.— TRANSITION 
 FROM A REPUBLICAN TO A MONARCHICAL SYSTEM.— MEDIE- 
 VAL MONUMENTS.— THE CATHEDRAL.— ITALIAN GOTHIC ARCH- 
 ITECTURE.— NICHOLAS OF PISA.— EARLY SCULPTURE.— APPRE- 
 CIATION OF FORM IN THE RENAISSANCE 40 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF PAINTING AT SIENNA AND PISA.— CREATrVE EN- 
 ERGY IN SOCIETY AND IN THE ARTS.— DUCCIO DA SIENNA.— 
 SIMONE MEMMI.— THE LORENZBKTI.— MATTEO DA SIENNA .... 49 
 
 HITECIT 
 
 FROIVS^ FLORENCE TO PISA.— SCENERY.— PISAN ARCHITlXITURE. 
 THfi' DUOMO, LEANING TOWER, BAPTISTERY, AND q^MPO- 
 SANTO.— PAINTINGS OF THE XIV. CENTURY.— PIETRO D'ORVIE- 
 TO.— SPINELLO SPINELLI, PIETRO LORmZETTI, AND THE OR- 
 CAGNA.— RELATIONSHIP OF THE ART 'OF THE XIV. CENTURY 
 TO ITS SOCIETY.— WHY ARTISTIC DEVELOPMENT REMAINS 
 STATIONARY 55 
 
 BOOK II. 
 FLORENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 STREET SCENES.— FLORENTINE CHARACTER 71 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 THEATRES.— LITERATURE.— POLITICS.— IN WHAT RESPECT THE 
 IT^lLIAN differs FROM THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.— THE 
 PJ^^NT IN RELATION TO THE NOBLE.— THE LAYMAN IN RE- 
 LATION TO THE PRIEST 76 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 THE PIAZZA.— REPUBLICAN SOCIETY IN THE MIDDLE AGES.— 
 STREET FRAYS AND FAMILY FEUDS.— THE PALAZZO-VECCHIO. 
 CONTRAST BETWEEN MEDIEVAL AND RENAISSANCE MONU- 
 MENTS.— THE DUOMO.— MIXED AND ORIGINAL CHARACTER OF 
 THE ARCHITECTURE.— THE CAMPANILE.— THE BAPTISTERY.— 
 ITALY REMAINS LATIN.— PRECOCITY OF THE RENAISSANCE.— 
 BRUNELLESCHI, DONATELLO, AND GHIBERTI 84 
 
 BOOK III. 
 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE EARLY PAINTERS.— THE BYZANTINES.— CIMABUE.— GIOTTO. - 
 FIRST EVIDENCES OF THE LAIC, ITALIAN, AND PAGAN SPIRIT. 
 —THE SUCCESSORS OF GIOTTO.— ART AT THIS EPOCH REPRE- 
 SENTED IDEAS AND NOT OBJECTS 
 
CONTENTS. Y 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 PA6B 
 
 THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.— TRANSFORMATION OF SOCIETY AND 
 IDEAS.— PUBLIC PROSPERITY AND USEFUL IN^T:NTI0NS.— LUX- 
 URIOUS TASTES.— MODERN^CONCEPTIONS OF LIFE AND HAP- 
 PINESS.— THE HU3IANISTS.— THE POETS.- THE CARNIVAL.— A 
 NEW CAREER OPEN TO THHftVRTS.-THE GOLDSMITH, THE PRO- 
 MOTER OF ART.— ART NO LONGER REPRESENTS IDEAS, BUT 
 CREATURES.— PERSPECTIVE WITH PAOLO UCCELLO 108 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PORTRAITURE OF ACTUAL FORM: MODELLING AND ANATOMY 
 WITH ANTONIO POLLAIOLO AND VEROCCHIO.— CREATION OF 
 IDEAL FORM WITH MASACCIO.— ORIGINALITY AND LIMITS OP 
 ART IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.— FRA FILIPPO LIPPI AND 
 GHIRLANDAIJO.— THE SURVIVORS BOTTICELLI 120 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CONVENT OF SAN MARCO.— BEATO ANGELICO.— HIS LIFE AND 
 WORKS.— PROLONGATION OF MYSTIC SENTIMENT AND ART... 131 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE UFFIZJ COLLECTION.— THE TRIBUNE.— ANTIQUES, AND RE- 
 NAISSANCE SCULPTURE.— DIFFERENCE BETWEEN GREEK ART 
 AND THE ART OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.— MICHAEL AN- 
 GELO.— THE MEDICI CHAPEL /. 138 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE PITTI PALACE.— THE :MEDICI MONARCHY.— MANNERS AND 
 CUSTOMS OF THE COURT.— PROMENADES AMONG THE PAINT- 
 ERS. -ANDRE A DEL SARTO AND FRA BARTOLOMEO.— THE SPIMT 
 AND INFLUENCE OF FLORENCE IN ITALY 151 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 FROM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FROM FLORENCE TO BOLOGNA.— THE APENNINES.— BOLOGNA.— 
 STREETS AND FIGURES.— WOMEN AND THE YOUNG.— LOVE.- 
 SAN DOMENICO.— THE TOMB OF SAN DOMENICO.— SAN PETRO- 
 NIO.— .TACOPO DELLA QUERCIA.-^OHN OF BOLOGNA.-END OF 
 THE RENAISSANCE 160 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 PAQB 
 
 THE PINACOTHEA.— RAPHAEL'S ST. CECILIA.— THE CAEACCI.— 
 STATE OF SOCIETY AND OF ART DURING THE CATHOLIC RES- 
 TORATION.— DOMENICHINO, ALBANO AND GUIDO ITO 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FROM BOLOGNA TO RAVENNA.— LANDSCAPE.— PEASANTRY. -THE 
 TOMB OF THEODORIC— RAVENNA.— BYZANTINE ARCHITECTURE. 
 - SAN APOLLINARE AND ITS MOSAICS 179 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE CIVILIZATION OF CONSTANTINOPLE.— CHANGE 
 AND ABASEMENT OF THE SOCIAL AND ARTISTIC SPIRIT.— SAN 
 VITALE, ITS ARCHITECTURE AND MOSAICS.— JUSTINIAN AND 
 THEODORA.— THE TOMB OF PLACIDIA 186 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 FROM BOLOGNA TO PADUA.— ASPECT OF THE COUNTRY.— PADUA.— 
 STATE OF SOCIETY IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY AND OF 
 ART IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.— SANTA MARIA DELL' ARENE 
 AND THE WORKS OF GIOTTO 197 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 PADUA, CONTINUED.— SAN GUISTINA.— SAN ANTONIO.— THE SCULP- 
 TORS AND DECORATORS OF THE FIFTEENTH AND SIXTEENTH 
 CENTURIES.— THE MUNICIPAL SYSTEM COMPARED WITH THE 
 EXTENDED GOVERNIMENTS OF MODERN TIMES.— THE ADVAN- 
 TAGES AND DRAWBACKS OF CONTEMPORARY CIVILIZATION.. 
 
 BOOK y. 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 \ 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FROM PADUA TO VENICE.— THE LAGUNES.— PROMENADE IN VEN- 
 ICE.— THE GRAND CANAL.— THE PIAZZA DI SAN MARCO.— THE 
 DUCAL PALACE.— " VENICE, QUEEN," by PAUL VERONESE.— DAY 
 AND NIGHT LANDSCAPES ON THE SEA.— SQUARES, STREETS, 
 FIGURES AND CAFES 217 
 
CONTENTS. VU 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ANCIENT VENICE.— PROLONGATION OF THE MUNICIPAL SYSTEM.— 
 ORIGINALITY AND RICHNESS OF INVENTION IN SMALL FREE 
 STATES.— THE RENAISSANCE OP ARCHITECTURE.— SAN MARCO. 
 -IMPORTATION AND TRANSFORMATION OF THE BYZANTINE 
 STYLE.— MOSAICS AND SCULPTURES 231 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 SAN GIOVANNI E PAOLO.— I FRARL— THE MAUSOLEUM OF GUAT- 
 TEMALATA.— MONUMENTS OF THE DOGES.-THE SPIRIT OF DI- 
 VERSE CENTURIES AS STAMPED ON SCULPTURE.— THE MIDDLE 
 AGES, THE RENAISSANCE, THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, AND 
 THE MODERN EPOCH.—" ST. PETER MARTYR," BY TITIAN.— TIN- 
 TORETTO 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 PROMENADES.— SANTA-MARIA DELL' ORTO.-SAN GIOBBE.-LA GUI- 
 DECCA.— I GESUATL— I GESUITL— MANNERS, CUSTOMS AND 
 CHARACTERS.— MISERY.— PUBLIC SPIRIT.— IDLENESS AND REV- 
 ERIE AT VENICE 251 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE LATTER DAYS.— EPICUREANISM.— CANALETTI, GUARDI, LON- 
 GHI, GOLDONI AND GOZZL— THE CARNIVAL.— LICENSE.— THE 
 LIDO.— THE SEA.— THE TOWER OF SAN-MARCO.— THE CITY, THE 
 WATER AND THE SANDS 262 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 VENETIAN ART. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CLIMATE.-TEMPERAMENT.-ART, AN ABSTRACT OF LIFE.-MAN IN 
 THE INTERVAL BETWEEN HEROIC AND DEGENERATE ERAS.. 272 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE EARLY PAINTERS.-JOHN BELLINI.— CARPACCIO.— VENETIAN 
 SOCIETY IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.— UNRESTRAINED VO- 
 LUPTUOUSNESS.- DOMESTIC ESTABLISHMENT OF ARETINO.— 
 SENTIMENT OF ART.— COLOR INSTINCTS 
 
TIU CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE DUCAL PALACE.— CHAEACTEES OF THE DAY.— THE ALLEGOR- 
 ICAL PAINTINGS OF VERONESE AND TINTORETTO.— THE RAPE 
 OF EUROPA 294 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 TITIAN, HIS LIFE AND CHARACTER.— HIS WORKS IN THE ACAD- 
 EMY.— "THE ASSUMPTION OF THE VIRGIN," AND OTHERS.— 
 SANTA MARIA DELLA SALUTE.—" THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM." 
 — " CAIN AND AEEL."— THE WORKS OF BONEFAZIO, PALMA-VEC- 
 CHIO AND VERONESE 301 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE CHARACTER ANT) GENIUS OF TINTORETTO.— THE " MIRACLE 
 OF ST. MARK."— THE SCUOLA OF SAN-ROCCO.— THE "CRUCIFIX- 
 ION."— GENERAL IMPRESSIONS 312 
 
 BOOK YIL 
 LOMBARDY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 VERONA.— THE AMPHITHEATRE.— CHURCHES.— LOMBARD STYLE OF 
 ARCHITECTURE.— THE DUOMO.— SAN ZENONE.— THE SCALIGERS. 
 —THE PIAZZA.— THE MUSEO 328 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LAGO DI GARDA.— MILAN.— STREETS AND CHARACTERS.— THE CA- 
 € THEDRAL.— MYSTIC FIGURES AND VEGETAL ANALOGIES OF THE 
 GOTHIC— SAN AMBROGIO 342 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 THE LAST SUPPER OF LEONARDO DA VINCI.— CHARACTER OF HIS 
 PERSONAGES.— CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS GENIUS.— HIS SCHOOL. 
 — LUINI.— THE BRERA MUSEE.— THE AAIBROSIAN LIBRARY.. .. 350 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 COMO AND THE LAKE.— SCENERY.— THE CATHEDRAL.— ITALIAN 
 * ARCHITECTURE AND SCULPTURE IN THE FIFTEENTH CEN- 
 TURY 361 
 
CONTENTS. IX 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 FROM COMO TO LAGO MAGGIORE.— DEVOTION. -EPICUEEANISM.- 
 
 ^ THE PEASANTRY, BOURGEOIS AND NOBLES.-POLITICAL DTSPO 
 
 SITIONS.— THE NECESSITIES OF ITALY.— LAGO MAGGIORE.— 
 
 iSOLA MADRE.— ISOLA BELLA.— SCENERY.— ART AND NATURE.— 
 
 THE ALPS AND THE SIMPLON 367 
 
ITALY, 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 FROM K0:ME to PERUGIA.— the ROMAN CAMPAGNA.— THE APEN- 
 NINES.— SCENERY. 
 
 I LEFT Eome at five o'clock in tlie eYening ; I had 
 not yet seen this portion of the Campagna, and I will 
 never see it again for my ot\ti pleasure. 
 
 Always the same impression — that of an abandoned 
 cemetery. Long monotonous hillocks succeed each other 
 in interminable rows, like those seen on a battle-field 
 when the great trenches are covered over in which the 
 dead lie heaped. Not a tree, not a stream, not a hut. 
 In two hours I saw but one round cabin, with a pointed 
 roof, like those found amongst the savages. Even 
 ruins are wanting. On this side there are no aque- 
 ducts. At long intervals we encounter an ox-cart ; 
 every quarter of a league the sombre foliage of a 
 stunted evergreen bristles up by the roadside, the 
 sole living object, a forlorn straggler lost in the soli- 
 tude. The only trace of man is the fences bordering 
 the highway and traversing, far and wide, the undu- 
 lating verdure, in order to confine the flocks during the 
 season of pasturage. At present, however, all is barren, 
 
a PEEUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 and the sky expands its divine cupola over the funereal 
 waste with mournful, ironic serenity. The sun declines, 
 and the fading azure, growing more limpid, tinges its 
 crystal with an 'imperceptible hue of emerald. No 
 words can express this contrast between the eternal 
 beauty of the sky and the irremediable desolation of 
 the soil. Yirgil, in the midst of Eoman pomp, already 
 first indicated the merciful contemplation of the gods, 
 who, under Jupiter's roof, looked down amazed upon 
 man's miseries and strifes.^ 
 
 I cannot rid my mind of the impression that here is 
 the sepulchre of Eome, and of all the nations she de- 
 stroyed — ItaHans, Carthaginians, Gauls, Spaniards, 
 Greeks, Asiatics, barbarian populations and enlight- 
 ened cities. All antiquity, indiscriminately, lies buried 
 here under the monstrous city which devoured them, 
 and which died of its surfeit. Every verdant undula- 
 tion of the soil is, as it were, the gTave of a distinct 
 nation. 
 
 ■ Daylight is gone. In the moonless night, the mis- 
 erable post-houses, with then* smoking lamps, appear 
 suddenly, like the dwellings of the watchers of the 
 dead. Heavy stone walls, begTimed arcades, shadowy 
 depths with lank forms of horses vaguely discernible 
 in them, strange, bronzed, sallow visages circulating 
 around the harness and clanking chains, their gleam- 
 ing eyes lit up with fever — all this fantastic disorder 
 and grimacing in the midst of the darkness and chilly 
 dampness falling around it like a pall, imparts to the 
 nerves and heart a long sentiment of horror. The 
 ghastly vision is completed by a lugubrious postilion, 
 who, in an old tattered cap, eternally jumps about in 
 the yellow light. The rays from the lantern fall on his 
 back with a spectral tint. He is constantly writhing 
 
 " Di Jovis in tectis iram mirantur inanem 
 Amboruin et tantos mortalibus esse labores." 
 
THE APENNINES. 3 
 
 and twisting around in order to beat his nags, and you 
 can see the fixed leer, the mechanical contraction of his 
 meagre jaws. 
 
 On awakening, at early dawn, a river appears me- 
 andering beneath its morning exhalations ; then 
 ravines and bald slopes confusedly intermingled and 
 riven by innumerable fissures, with courses of whi- 
 tened stones rolled down into the hollows and on the 
 declivities and, in the distance, lofty, dark, striated 
 mountains. The fi'ontier is passed, and the Apen- 
 nines commence. A bright sun illumines the sharp 
 crags of their summits ; the lungs breathe^ healthy 
 atmosphere ; the land of pestilence is left behind. We 
 have now come to a meagre soil, but one favorable to 
 existence ; the country has a rigorous aspect, with 
 grand and striking features, serving to stamp on the 
 minds of its children noble and definite images without 
 the body becoming sensuahzed by a too gross and 
 abundant nourishment. Heaths, barren rocks, with 
 here and there a strip of rich aromatic pasturage, some 
 stony fields, and olives everywhere — you might imagine 
 yourseK in Provence. Everything, even these pale 
 olive-trees, adds to the austerity of the landscape. 
 Most of these trees have burst asunder, their trunks 
 having split and separated into fragments, the parts 
 being held together only by a suture : one might regard 
 them as the damned in Dante undergoing the penalty 
 of the sword, cleft in twain, and hewn and hacked on 
 every side from crown to heel and from heel to crown. 
 Their tortuous roots cHng to the rocks like despairing 
 feet ; and the bodies, tormented with their wounds, 
 writhe and recoil in their agony : distorted or distended 
 they still Hve, and no dechvity, or rock, or flood of 
 winter, triumphs over their struggles and vitality. 
 Toward Narni the aspect changes ; the road runs 
 winding up the mountain, the face of which is com- 
 pletely covered with evergreens : these have sprung up 
 
4 PEEUGIA AND ASSIST. 
 
 everywhere, even in tlie hollows and on inaccessible 
 heights ; only a few walls of perpendicular rock have 
 opposed their invasion. The mountain thus rises, 
 round from the torrent below to the sky above, like a 
 magnificent summer bouquet intact in the midst of win- 
 ter. After leaving Narni the landscape becomes still 
 more beautiful. It is a fertile plain ; fresh grain, elms 
 wedded to vines, an extensive smiling garden, and all 
 around high hills of a graver hue ; beyond, a circle of 
 blue mountains fringed with snow. Soave austero is a 
 phrase frequently recurring to one in the landscapes 
 of Italy : the mountains impart nobleness to them, 
 without, however, being too lofty ; the imagination is 
 not overwhelmed by them; they form amphitheatres 
 and backgrounds to pictures, and are simply a natural 
 architecture. Beneath them, varied cultures, numer- 
 ous fruit-trees, and terraced fields, compose a rich and 
 orderly decoration which soon renders one obKvious of 
 our monotonous fields of grain, our still more monoto- 
 nous vegetation, and every northern landscape which 
 seems to be a manufactory of bread and m6at. 
 
 We see, passing, numerous little carts mth young 
 couples in them, a man and a girl ; the latter is gayly 
 attired in bright colors, and has her head bare : she looks 
 as if she was accompanying her lover. Many are the 
 signs here of a voluptuous and picturesque content- 
 ment. The young girls bind up their hair in the latest 
 fashion, with puffs over the brow, and wear silk handker- 
 chiefs, pendent ear-rings, and gilded combs. In Kome, 
 some superb and charming heads projected out of the 
 dirtiest of rookeries. A httle while ago, in passing 
 through a small town, I observed, in a dull and gloomy 
 street, leaning half-way out of an obscure window, a 
 black velvet bodice, and above it, large dark eyes, 
 flashing like lightning. Elsewhere, they raise their 
 shawls over their heads, and stand ready draped for the 
 painter. We cross before a cart in which eight peasants 
 
THE PEOPLE. 5 
 
 are packed — all of them singing, eacli taking a part in 
 a grave noble air, as in a choral. Indifferent objects — 
 the form of a head, a garment, the physiognomies of 
 five or six lads in a village auberge proffering gallan- 
 tries to a pretty girl — all indicate a new world and a 
 distinct race. In my judgment, the characteristic trait 
 by which they are distinguished is the regarding of ideal 
 beauty and sensuous happiness as one and the same 
 thing. 
 
 The road ascends and the carriage advances slowly, 
 with a re-enforcement of horses over the precipitous parts 
 of the mountain. A meagre stream alternately winds 
 and tumbles, and loses itself beneath the bed of rocks 
 rolled down by it during the winter. The white skel- 
 eton of the mountain pierces through the brown mantle 
 of its bare forests. I have never seen mountains more 
 racked by upheavals ; the uphfted strata sometimes 
 stand perpendicular like a wall. All this mineral 
 framework is shattered and seems to be dislocated, so 
 cracked and so full of crevices is each layer. Patches 
 of snow, on the summit, marble the carpet of fallen 
 leaves. The north mnd moans sad and cold. The con- 
 trast is a strange one, when one regards the radiant sky 
 where the sun shines in full force, and the delicious 
 azure with its tints fading in the distance. On pass- 
 ing the Apennines, low hills and rich plains appear 
 well framed in and laid out, as on the hither slope. 
 Here and there is a town stacked on a mountain ; a 
 sort of round mole, and an ornament of the landscape, 
 as we find them in the pictures of Poussin and Claude. 
 This is the Apennines, with its bands of bastions ex- 
 tending along a narrow peninsula, and imparting its 
 character to the entire Italian landscape : no long 
 rivers or grand plains, but narrow valleys, noble forms, 
 plenty of rock and sunshine, with aliment and sensa- 
 tions to correspond. How many individual and his- 
 toric traits bear the imprint of this character ! 
 
CHAPTEE II. 
 
 PERUGIA.— PEODUCTIONS, MANKEES, AND CUSTOMS OF THE EARLY 
 RENAISSANCE.— MYSTIC ART.— ERA ANGELICO.— PERUGINO.— LE 
 CAMBIO.— THE VALLEY OF PERUGIA. 
 
 Perugia, April 3. — This is an old city of the middle 
 ages, a city of defence and of refuge, situated on a 
 craggy plateau, commanding a view of the entire val- 
 ley. Portions of its walls are antique ; several of the 
 gate foundations are Etruscan, the feudal epoch hav- 
 ing added to them its towers and bastions. Most of 
 its streets are sloping, and arched passages in them 
 form sombre defiles. Oftentimes a house strides over 
 the street, the first story prolonging itself into that 
 which faces it ; vast walls of red brick, without win- 
 dows, seem to be remnants of fortresses.— Innumerable 
 fragments suggest to the imagination the feudal and 
 republican city ; — the black entrance of San Agostino, a 
 huge stone donjon, so scathed and corroded that it 
 might be called a natural cavern ; and, on the summit, 
 a terrace, supported by pretty little columns, which are 
 Koman, and so many delicate forms, the first ideas of 
 elegance and of art that flourished amid the dangers 
 and enmities of the middle ages ; — the Palazzo del 
 Governo, massive and severe, as was essential for 
 street fights and seditions, but with a graceful portal, 
 entwined with stone wreaths and cordons of sculptured 
 figures, simple and sincere ; — Gothic forms and Latin 
 reminiscences ; cloisters of superposed arcades, and 
 lofty brick church-towers, blackened by time ; sculp- 
 tures of the early renaissance, of the thirteenth and 
 fourteenth centuries, the most original and animated of 
 all ; a fountain by Arnolfo di Lapo, by Nicolas and 
 
EARLY SCULPTUEE. V 
 
 by John of Pisa; a tomb of Benedict XI., again by 
 John of Pisa (1304). Nothing is more charming than 
 this first flight of an active invention, and of modern 
 thought half-emerging from gothic tradition. The 
 pope hes on a couch in a marble alcove, of which two 
 cherubs withdraw the curtains : above, in an ogive ar- 
 cade, stand the Yirgin and two saints, to welcome his 
 soul. Language cannot express the surprised, tender, 
 and childlike air of the Virgin : the sculptor had seen 
 some young girl weeping at the bedside of a dying 
 mother, and, wholly mastered by the impression, 
 freely, without thought of the antique, unrestrained 
 by any school, he expressed his sentiment. It is 
 these spontaneous utterances which make a work of 
 art a thing of eternity. They are heard athwart five 
 centuries of time as distinctly as at the first day : 
 man at length speaks across feudal and monastic 
 tyranny, and we listen to the personal exclamation of 
 an independent and complete spirit. The most trifling 
 productions of this early age of sculpture arrest one's 
 steps and fix one to the spot : it seems as if one caught 
 the tones of an actual vibrating voice. After Michael 
 Angelo, types are established ; no change is made 
 but to arrange or purify a prescribed form. Before 
 him, and even into the middle of the fifteenth cen- 
 tury, each artist, like the citizen, is himself : genius 
 and character are not subordinated by fashion and con- 
 ventionalism ; every man stands erect before nature 
 with a sentiment of his own, and figures emerge as 
 diversified and as original in the arts as in life. 
 
 The chanting of a mass in the cathedral prevent- 
 ed me from seeing more than a bishop's tomb 
 near the entrance. Beneath the recumbent bishop 
 are four women holding two vases, a sword, and a 
 book, admirable in their breadth and simplicity, 
 with ample figures and magnificent luxuriant hair, 
 but reahstic nevertheless, and only a nobler imprint 
 
o PEEUGIA AND ASSIST. 
 
 of the model employed by veracious nature. To be 
 one's self tlirougli one's self, alone and without reserve, 
 to the very end, is there any other precept in art and 
 in life? Through 'this precept and this instinct the 
 modern man has made himself and unmade the mid- 
 dle ages. Such are the reveries that occupy one's 
 brain while wandering through these quaint, steep, 
 and rugged streets, in these rude passages paved 
 with brick and crossed with foot-props, amidst these 
 strange structures where the eccentricity and it- 
 regularity of the municipal and seigneurial life of 
 ancient days bursts forth scarcely tempered by the 
 few restorations of a modern police. Perugia, in the 
 fourteenth century, was a democratic and belligerent 
 republic, contending with and overcoming its neigh- 
 bors. The nobles were excluded from office, and one 
 hundred and fifty of them plotted the massacre of the 
 magistrates : they were either hung or banished. One 
 hundred and twenty castles stood on its territory, and 
 there were eighty fortified villages. Gentlemen con- 
 dottieri maintained their independence in these and 
 waged war against the city. In Perugia there were 
 gentlemen condottieri : the principal one, Biordo de 
 Michelotti, assuming too great authority, was assas- 
 sinated in his own house by the Abbe de St. Pierre. 
 Besieged by Braccio de Montone, the Perugians 
 sprung from the top of their walls, or let themselves 
 down with ropes, in order to fight hand to hand with 
 the defiant soldiers below. In the midst of such 
 usages the souls of men are kept alive, and the soil is 
 well prepared for the growth of the arts. 
 
 Painting : Fra Angelico and Perugino. — But what a 
 contrast between these arts and these usages ! In the 
 Pinacotheca is a collection of the pictures of the 
 school of which Perugia is the centre. It is mystic 
 throughout ; it seems as if Assisi and its seraphic pi- 
 ety governed all intellects. In this barbaric era she was 
 
FBA ANGELICO. 9 
 
 the one centre of thought ; there were but few of tliem 
 during the middle ages, and each extended its rule on 
 all sides. Era Angelico da Fiesole, driven from Flor- 
 ence, came and lived near here for seven years, and 
 likewise worked here. He was better off here than in 
 his own pagan Florence ; and it is to him that the eye is 
 first attracted. It seems, on contemplating him, as if 
 one were reading the "Imitation of Jesus Christ;" 
 pure and gentle figures on golden backgrounds breathe 
 a mute repose, like immaculate roses in the garden of 
 Paradise. I remember an "Annunciation" by him, in 
 two frames ( Nos. 221, 222 ). The Virgin is candor 
 and gentleness itself : she has almost a German phys- 
 iognomy — and how beautiful the two hands so piously 
 clasped! The angel with curling tresses kneeling be- 
 fore her seems like a httle smiling maiden, somewhat 
 simple, who is about to leave the maternal home. 
 Alongside of this, in the "Nativity," before the delicate 
 infant Christ with dreamy eyes, two angels in long 
 robes offer flowers ; they are so youthful, and yet how 
 grave! These are the delicate touches which subse- 
 quent painters are not to recover. A sentiment is an 
 infinite and incommunicable thing ; no research and no 
 labor can reproduce it in its integrity. In true piety 
 there is a certain reservation, a chasteness, and conse- 
 quently, arrangement of drapery and a choice of ac- 
 cessories which the cleverest masters, a century later, 
 will know no more. 
 
 For example, in an "Annunciation " by Perugino, 
 which is quite near this, the picture represents, not a 
 small private oratory, but a grand court. The Virgin 
 is standing, frightened, but not alone ; there are two 
 angels behind her, and two others behind Gabriel. Is 
 this chasteness to be reproduced later? Another pic- 
 ture by Perugino exhibits St. Joseph and the Virgin 
 kneeling before the infant : behind them, a slender por- 
 tico profiles its light columns in the open air, and three 
 
10 PEKUaiA AND ASSISI. 
 
 shepherds, at intervals, are praying. This great void 
 enhances the religions emotions ; it seems as if one 
 heard the silence of the country. 
 
 In like manner • Perugino's features and attitudes 
 express an unknown and unique sentiment. His figures 
 are mystic children — or, if you please, adult souls kept 
 infantile by the schooling of the cloister. None of 
 them regard each other ; none of them act, each being 
 absorbed in his own contemplation ; all look as if 
 dreaming of God ; each remains fixed, and seems to 
 withhold the breath for fear of disturbing the vision 
 within. The angels especially, with their downcast 
 eyes and bended brow, are true adorers, prostrate, 
 steadfast, and motionless : those of the " Baptism of 
 Jesus " have the humble and virginal modesty and 
 innocence of a nun communing. Christ himself is a 
 tender seminarist, who, for the first time, leaves the 
 house of his good uncle the cure, never having raised 
 his eyes to a woman, and receiving the host every 
 morning in serving the mass. The only heads at the 
 present day which give you any idea of this sentiment, 
 are those of peasant girls reared, quite young, in a 
 convent. Many of these at forty years of age have 
 rosy cheeks without a wrinkle. From their placid 
 look it seems as if they had never lived, w^hile on 
 the other hand they have never suffered. In like 
 manner, these figures stand motionless on the thresh- 
 old of thought without crossing it — without, indeed, 
 attempting to cross it. Man is not arrested, he arrests 
 himself : the bud is not crushed, but it does not open. 
 No similarity here is there to the mortifications and 
 excesses of ancient Christianity, or of the catholic 
 restoration; the end in view is not to stifle thought, 
 or to subdue the flesh ; the body is beautiful and in 
 perfect health. A youthful St. Sebastian, in green and 
 gold bootees, an amiable young virgin almost Flemish 
 and gross, besides twenty others of Perugino's fig- 
 
PERUGINO'S WOEKS. U 
 
 ures, are not the subjects of an ascetic regimen. Their 
 slender legs, however, and inert eye, denote that they 
 are still the inhabitants of the sleeping forest. What 
 a singular moment ! — The same with Perugino as with 
 Van Eyck : the bodies belong to the renaissance, and 
 their souls to the middle ages ! 
 
 This is still more apparent in the Camhio, a kind of 
 exchange or guildhall of the merchants. Perugino was 
 intrusted with its decoration in the year 1500 ; and he 
 has placed here a "Transfiguration," an "Adoration 
 of the Shepherds," Sibyls, Prophets, Leonidas, Socrates, 
 and other pagan heroes and philosophers, a St. John 
 over the altar, and Mars and Jupiter on the archway. 
 Alongside of this is a chapel wainscoted with sculp- 
 tured wood and gilded and painted, the Eternal in 
 the centre, and diverse arabesques of elegant nude 
 women on the cruppers of. lions. Can the confluence 
 of tAvo ages be better realized, the intermingling ideas, 
 the bloom of a fresh paganism underneath a decrepit 
 Christianity? — Merchants in long robes assembled 
 on the wooden seats of this narrow hall ; before open- 
 ing their deliberations, they proceed to kneel down in 
 the little adjoining chapel to hear mass. — There Gian 
 Nicola Manni has painted on the two sides of the 
 high altar the animated and delicate figures of his 
 "Annunciation," an ample Herodias, some charming 
 erect young women, graceful and slender, which make 
 one realize the spirit and richness of corporeal vitality. 
 While joining in the droning hum of the responses, 
 or following the sacred gestures of the officiating priest, 
 more than one of the faithful has let his eyes wander 
 up to the rosy torsos of the little chimeras crouched on 
 the ceiling, executed, as is said in the town, by a young 
 man of great promise, the favorite pupil of the master 
 Raphael Sanzio d'Urbino. — The service is over ; they 
 return to the council-chamber, and there, it may be 
 presumed, a debate ensues on the payment of three 
 
13 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 hundred and fifty crowns in gold promised to Peru- 
 gino for his work. This is not too much ; he has 
 devoted seven years to it, and his fellow-citizens com- 
 prehend sympathetically, through mental similarity, 
 the two phases of his genius, the old and the new, 
 the one christian and the other semi-pagan. 
 
 First comes a *' Nativity," under a lofty portico, 
 with a landscape of slender trees, such as he loved. It 
 is an aerial meditative picture, calculated to make one 
 appreciate a contemplative life. One cannot too highly 
 commend the modest gravity, the mute nobleness of the 
 Virgin kneeling before her infant. Three large serious 
 angels on a cloud are singing from a sheet of music ; 
 and this simplicity bears the mind backward to the 
 times of mysteries. But one has only to turn his head 
 to see figures of an entirely different character. The 
 master has been to Florence, and antique statues, 
 their nudities, the imposing action and spirited in- 
 flexions of figures new to him, have revealed another 
 world, which he reproduces with some restriction, but 
 which entices him away from the road he first followed. 
 Six prophets, five sibyls, five warriors and as many pa- 
 gan philosophers stand erect, and each, hke an antique 
 statue, is a masterpiece of force and physical noble- 
 ness. It is not that he imitates a Grecian type or 
 costume, for complicated casques, fantastic coiffures, 
 and reminiscences of chivalry, are oddly intermingled 
 with tunics and nudities ; but the sentiment is antique. 
 They are powerful men satisfied with existence, and 
 not pious souls dreaming of paradise. The sibyls are 
 all blooming with beauty and youthfulness. The 
 first one is advancing, and her bearing and form are 
 of royal grandeur and stateliness. Just as noble and 
 grand is the prophet-king who faces them. The se- 
 riousness, the elevation of these figures is incom- 
 parable. At this dawn of the imagination, the face, 
 still intact, preserves, like that of Greek statuary, the 
 
PERUGINO'S WOEKS. 13 
 
 simplicity and immobility of primitive expression. 
 The changes of the physiognomy do not efface the 
 type ; man is not broken up into petty, var^dng, and 
 fleeting thoughts ; the character is made prominent 
 by unity and repose. 
 
 On a pilaster to the left is a bloated countenance, 
 quite vulgar, with long hair under a red cap, which 
 might be taken for an ill-humored abbe : the ex- 
 pression is one of irritability, and even of craftiness. 
 This is Perugino, painted by himself. He was at this 
 time much changed. Those w^ho have seen his other 
 portrait, also painted by himself some years before at 
 Florence, have some difficulty in recognizing it. There 
 is in his life as in his works two contrary sentiments, 
 and two distinct epochs. No mind furnishes better 
 evidence, through its contradictions and its harmonies, 
 of the great transformation that was going on around 
 him. He is, in the first place, religious : no one can 
 doubt this when for so long a time, and even in the 
 heart of pagan Florence, he is seen repeating and 
 purifying figures so religious — painting gratuitously, to 
 obtain by prayers the oratory of a confrerie situated 
 opposite to his home ; painting and retaining in his 
 house fourteen banners, in order to loan them to pro- 
 cessions, and living and developing himself in the 
 pious convents of Umbria.^ He is a creator in sa- 
 cred art, and a man creates only after his own heart. 
 It is not, again, pushing conjecture too far to represent 
 him at Florence as an admirer of Savonarola. Savon- 
 arola is Prior of the convent which he is decorating ; 
 Savonarola causes pagan pictures to be burnt, and 
 suddenly excites Florence up to the highest pitch of 
 ascetic and christian enthusiasm. The first words of 
 one of Savonarola's sermons are inscribed on a paper 
 in the hand of the portrait which Perugino then made 
 
 *Rio, Histoire de VArt Chretien^ vol. ii. p. 218. 
 
14 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 of himself; and lie purchases a plot of ground on 
 whicli to erect a house for himself in the reformer's 
 city. Suddenly the scene shifts : Savonarola is burnt 
 ahve, and it seems to his disciples that Providence, 
 justice, and divine power, are engulphed in his tomb. 
 Several among them have retained to the end in their 
 souvenirs, wholly corporeal and highly colored, the im- 
 age of the martyr, betrayed, tortured, and reviled at 
 the stake by those whose salvation he secured. Is it 
 this great shock, joined to the epicurean teachings of 
 Florence, which overthrew the faith of Perugino? 
 At all events, on his return he is no longer the same 
 man. His countenance, ironically distrustful, bears the 
 marks of inward brooding and depression. His re- 
 ligious works are less pure ; he dispatches them finally 
 by the dozen like a manufacturer ; he is soon charged 
 with caring no longer for any thing but money.^ He 
 undertakes in the Cambio pagan subjects, and in their 
 treatment assumes the style of the goldsmiths and 
 anatomists of Florence. He paints, moreover, alle- 
 gorical nudities,t Love and Chastity, meageiiy and 
 coldly, like a laggard libertine who poorly compensates 
 himself for the severities of his youth. He seems to 
 have become a common atheist, embittered and hard- 
 ened Hke all those who deny in hate and in mockery, 
 through deception and chagrin. "He never could," 
 says Yasari, " bring himself to believe in the immortal- 
 ity of the soul. His iron brain could never be turned 
 to good works ; he centred all his hopes in the goods 
 of fortune." And a contemporary annotator adds : 
 " Being at the point of death, he was told that it was 
 necessary to confess himself.' He rephed : ' I want 
 to see what a soul which has not confessed, will be 
 in that place !' And he steadily refused to do other- 
 wise." Such an end, after such a life, does it not 
 
 * Vasari. f Gallery of the Louvre. 
 
RAPHAEL AND NATUEE. 15 
 
 show liow the age of St. Francis becomes tlie age of 
 Alexander YI. ? 
 
 Others were more fortunate — as, for example, Ra- 
 phael. It is here, in this atelier, before these landscapes, 
 that he was formed ; and many times have I here dwelt 
 on his pure, happy genius ; on his clear, open landscapes ; 
 on the precision, somewhat dry, and the exquisite sim- 
 plicity of his early works. This sky is of perfect serenity ; 
 the light transparent atmosphere allows one to see the 
 fine forms of the trees a league away. A hundred 
 yards from San Pietro, an esplanade, planted with ever- 
 greens, advances like a promontory ; below, spreads the 
 campagna, a vast garden scattered with trees where the 
 foliage of the olive imprints its pale rays on the verdure 
 of the fresh-growing grain. The magnificent blue cu- 
 pola glows sparkling with sunshine ; and the rays sport 
 at will in this grand amphitheatre, through which they 
 dart unimpeded by any obstacle. Toward the west 
 rise gilded mountain-chains, one above the other, clear- 
 er and clearer as they approach the remote horizon, 
 the last one as exquisitely delicate as a silken veil. 
 Meanwhile their ridges meet, mingling together lights 
 and darks until, finahy descending and expanding, they 
 diminish and are lost in the plain. Light, relief, and 
 harmony — the eye marvels at and revels in so broad an 
 expanse, so lovely in composition, of such perfect dis- 
 tinctness of form. But the chilly atmosphere from the 
 mountains will not let the body lose sight of itself in a 
 too voluptuous contentment : one feels that the infertile 
 rock and winter are near at hand. Yonder winds a 
 long precipitous broken crag, sharp against the sky^ 
 which pales to the hue of steel above fields of snow 
 that seem to be slabs of marble. 
 
CHAPTEK III. 
 
 ASSIST.— VILLAGES AND THE PEASANTRY.— THE THEEE CHUECHES 
 —GIOTTO AND DANTE.— CONCORDANCE OF CHRISTIAN MYSTI- 
 CISM WITH GOTHIC ART.— AN ENTHUSIASTIC IMAGINATION COM- 
 PATIBLE WITH BARBAEISM. 
 
 Assist, AjjtU Mli. — A stroll on foot of four hours to 
 see the peasantry. 
 
 A wxll-cultivated and charming country ; the green 
 grain is coining up profusely, the grapevines are bud- 
 ding, and every vine clings to an elm ; clear streams flow 
 through the trenches. On the horizon is a belt of 
 mountains, and the brilliant, immaculate snow blends 
 with the satin of the clouds. 
 
 Carts abound, with peasants in them singing. It is a 
 great sign of prosperity, these Uttle vehicles ; they show 
 that there is a class elevated above hard labor and the 
 grosser necessities of life. Madonnas are numerous, 
 and, for three ave, promise forty days of indulgence. 
 This is Itahan religion. Otherwise, the villages resem- 
 ble ours, and indicate about the same degree of cultiva- 
 tion. It is Sunday; the people wear heavy shoes and 
 passable clothes — no rags. They are very gay, and 
 laugh and chat together in the open square ; some are 
 pitching quoits ; others are playing ball ; and others 
 morra. The inns and houses are not dirtier nor worse 
 furnished than in France. Heavy beams support the 
 ceiling ; there are chairs, tables, sideboards of polished 
 wood, and a bottle-dresser provided with a couple of Ma- 
 donnas. In the entrance-hall two large casks, encircled 
 with heavy planks, stand permanently ; and I can tes- 
 tify that the wine is not dear. Quarters of meat hang 
 suspended on iron hooks. In a fertile country that 
 consumes its own products, prosperity is natural. The 
 
THE TOMB OF ST. FRANCIS. I'J' 
 
 inn begins to fill up, and the young lady of tlie house 
 enters with her mother, gaudily dressed, with a black 
 veil on her head and a sweet smile on her lips. She is 
 gay, brilliant and coquettish ; and the young men be- 
 gin to hover around her with that tender complacency 
 and ravished voluptuous air which is peculiar to the 
 Italians. 
 
 On the summit of an abrupt height, over a double 
 row of arcades, appears the monastery ; at its base a 
 torrent ploughs the soil, winding off in the distance be- 
 tween banks of boulders ; beyond is the old town pro- 
 longing itself on the ridge of the mountain. We ascend 
 slowty under the burning sun, and suddenly, at the end 
 of a court surrounded by slender columns, enter with- 
 in the obscurit}^ of the edifice. It is unequalled : before 
 having seen it one has no idea of the art and the genius 
 of the middle ages. Append to it Dante and the "Fio- 
 retti" of St. Francis, and it becomes the masterpiece 
 of mystic Christianity. 
 
 There are three churches, one above the other, all of 
 them arranged around the tomb of St. Francis. Over 
 this venerated body, which the people regard as ever 
 living and absorbed in prayer at the bottom of an inac- 
 cessible cave, the edifice has arisen and gloriously 
 flowered like an architectural shrine. The lowest is a 
 crypt, dark as a sepulchre, into which the visitors de- 
 scend with torches ; pilgrims keep close to the dripping 
 walls and grope along in order to reach the grating. 
 Here is the tomb, in a pale, dim light, similar to that of 
 limbo. A few brass lamps, almost without light, burn 
 here eternally like stars lost in mournful obscurity. 
 The ascending smoke clings to the arches, and the 
 hea^^ odor of the tapers mingles with that of the cave. 
 The guide trims his torch ; and the sudden flash in this 
 horrible darkness, above the bones of a corpse, is like 
 one of Dante's visions. Here is the mystic grave of a 
 saint who, in the midst of corruption and worms, be- 
 
18 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 holds Ills slimj dungeon of earth filled with the super- 
 natural radiance of the Saviour. 
 
 But that which cannot be represented by words is 
 the middle church, a long, low spiracle supported by 
 small, round arches curving in the half-shadow, and 
 whose voluntary depression makes one instinctively 
 bend his knees. A coating of sombre blue and of red- 
 dish bands starred with gold, a marvellous embroidery 
 of ornaments, wreaths, delicate scroll-work, leaves, and 
 painted figures, covers the arches and ceilings with 
 its harmonious multitude ; the eye is overwhelmed by 
 it ; a population of forms and tints lives on its vaults ; 
 I would not exchange this cavern for all the churches 
 of Rome ! Neither antiquity nor the renaissance felt this 
 power of the innumerable : classic art is effective through 
 its simplicity, gothic art through its richness ; one 
 takes for its type the trunk of a tree, the other the tree 
 entire with all its luxuriance of foliage. There is a 
 world here as in an animated forest, and each object 
 is complex, complete like a living thing : on one hand 
 is the choir-stalls, surcharged and sown with sculp- 
 tures ; yonder a rich winding staircase, elaborate rail- 
 ings, a light marble pulpit and funereal monuments, 
 the marble of which, fretted and chased, seems the 
 most elegant jewel-casket : here and there, haphazard, 
 a lofty sheaf of slender columns, a cluster of stone 
 gems Avhose arrangement seems a phantasy, and, in 
 the labyrinth of colored foliage, a profusion of ascetic 
 paintings with their halos of faded gold : all this vaguely 
 discernible in a dim purple light, amidst dark reflec- 
 tions from the wainscotings, v/hilst, at the entrance, the 
 setting sun radiates myriads of golden darts like the 
 peacock displaying its splendor. 
 
 On the summit, the upper church shoots up as bril- 
 liant, as aerial, as triumphant, as this is low and grave. 
 Eeally, if one were to give way to conjecture, he might 
 suppose that in these three sanctuaries the architect 
 
THE TOMB OP ST. FRANCIS. 19 
 
 meant to represent the tliree worlds ; below, the gloom 
 of death and the horrors of the infernal tomb ; in the 
 middle, the impassioned anxiety of the beseeching 
 christian who strives and hopes in this world of trial ; 
 aloft, the bliss and dazzling glory of paradise. The 
 latter, uplifted in the air and in the light, tapers its 
 columns, narrows its ogives, refines its arches, mounts 
 Upward and upward illuminated by the full day of its 
 lofty windows, by the radiance of its rosaces, by the 
 stained glass, and golden threads, and stars, which 
 flash through the arches and vaults that confine the 
 beatified beings and sacred passages with which it is 
 painted from pavement to ceihng. Time, undoubtedly, 
 has undermined them, several have fallen, and the 
 azure that covers them is tarnished ; but the mind im- 
 mediately revives what is lost to the eye, and it again 
 beholds the angelic pomp such as it first burst forth 
 six hundred years ago. Cathedrals do not have this 
 splendor ; a detached chapel is necessary in order to 
 prefigure to man the last of the stations of the chris- 
 tian life. As in the Sainte ChajDelle of our Louis IX., 
 man here found a tabernacle ; the gravity and the ter- 
 rors of religion were effaced ; he could see nothing 
 around him but celestial brightness and ecstatic rap- 
 tures. Beneath this vault which, like an aerial dais, 
 seems not to rest on the earth, amidst golden scintilla- 
 tions and floods of light transfigured by the windows, 
 in this marvellous embroidery of forms confusedly inter- 
 mingling and intersecting each other as in a bridal robe, 
 man felt as if he were translated alive into paradise. 
 "We can neither reproduce nor depict these festivals. 
 They have been depicted for us, and I silently re- 
 peated these stanzes by Dante : 
 
 And lo ! a sudden lustre ran across 
 
 On every side athwart the spacious forest, 
 Such that it made me doubt if it were lightning. 
 
20 PEEUGIA AND ASSIST. 
 
 And a delicious melody there ran 
 Along the luminous air . . . 
 
 While mid such manifold first-fruits I walked 
 Of the eternal pleasm-e all enrapt, 
 And still solicitous of more delights, 
 
 In front of us, like an enkindled fire 
 Became the au' beneath the verdant boughs 
 And the sweet sound as singing now was heard. 
 
 A little farther on, seven trees of gold 
 
 Far brighter than the moon in the serene 
 Of midnight, at the middle of her month. 
 
 Then saw I people, as behind their leaders, 
 Coming behind them, garmented in white. 
 And such a whiteness never was on earth.* 
 
 Everything is in keeping ; Dante's friend Giotto has 
 painted similar visions in the second church. His 
 pupils and successors, all imbued with his style, have 
 tapestried the other walls of the edifice with their 
 works. There is no christian monument where pure 
 mediaeval ideas reach the mind under so many forms, 
 and which explain each other by so many contempo- 
 rary masterpieces. Over the altar, enclosed within an 
 elaborate iron and bronze railing, Giotto has covered 
 an elliptic arch with grand, calm figures, and with 
 mystic allegories. There is Saint Francis receiving 
 Poverty as spouse from the hands of Christ ; Chastity 
 vainly besieged in a crenelated fortress, and honored 
 by angels ; Obedience under a canopy, surrounded by 
 saints and kneeling angels ; Saint Francis, glorified, in 
 the gilded mantle of a deacon, and enthroned in the 
 midst of celestial virtues and chanting cherubim. 
 This Giotto, who in the north seems to us simply un- 
 skilful and barbarous, is already a perfect painter ; he 
 
 * Purgatorio, canto XXIX, Longfellow's translation. 
 
GIOTTO. 21 
 
 composes groups and appreciates airs of the head; 
 whatever rigidity still remains with him does but 
 augment the religious seriousness of his figures. Too 
 powerful relief, too great human action would disturb 
 our emotion ; too varied or too animated expressions 
 are not necessary for angels and symbolic virtues ; 
 all are spirits in ecstatic immobility. The vigorous and 
 splendid virgins and muscular archangels, which are to 
 follow two centuries later, reconduct us back to earth ; 
 their flesh is so tangible that we do not believe in 
 their divinity. Here the personages, the grand and 
 noble women ranged in hieratic processions, resemble 
 the Matildas and Lucias of Dante ; they are the sub- 
 lime and floating apparitions of a dream. Their beau- 
 tiful blonde tresses are gathered chastely and uni- 
 formly around their brows ; pressing close to each 
 other they meditate ; grand white or blue tunics in 
 long folds depend around their forms ; they crowd 
 around the saint, and around Christ in silence, like a 
 flock of faithful birds, and their heads, somewhat mel- 
 ancholy, possess the grave languor of celestial bliss. 
 
 This is a unique moment. The thirteenth century is 
 the term and the flower of living Christianity ; hence- 
 forth there is only scholasticism, decadence, and fruit- 
 less gropings after another age and another spirit. A 
 sentiment which previously w^as only forming. Love, 
 then burst forth with extraordinary power, and Saint 
 Francis was its herald. He called water, flre, the 
 moon and the sun brothers ; he preached to birds, and 
 ransomed lambs on their way to market with his own 
 mantle. It is stated that hares and pheasants sought 
 refuge under the folds of his robe. His heart over- 
 flowed toward all living creatures. His first disciples 
 dwelt like himself in a sort of rapture, " so that often- 
 times for twenty and even thirty days they lived 
 alone on the tops of high mountains, contemplating all 
 celestial objects." Their writings are effusions. " Let 
 
22 PERUaiA AND ASSISI. 
 
 no one rebuke me if love forces me to go like a mad- 
 man ! No heart can resist, none can escape from such 
 love . . . For heaven and earth declare aloud and 
 repeat to me, and all those whom it is my duty to love, 
 address me : ' Cherish the love which hath made us in 
 order to bring us near to Him' . . . O, Christ, often 
 hast thou trodden this earth hke a man intoxicated! 
 Love led thee, like a man that is sold. In all things 
 thou showest only love, never art thou conscious of 
 thyself .... The arrows poured down in such flights as 
 to overwhelm me with agony. He launched them 
 forth so powerfully that I despaired of warding them 
 off, overcome not by a veritable death, but by excess 
 of joy." It was not merely in the cloisters that such 
 transports were encountered. Love became sovereign in 
 laic as well as in religious life. In Florence associa- 
 tions of a thousand persons clad in white traversed 
 the streets with trumpets, led by a chief who was 
 called the Lord of Love. The new language growing 
 into life, fresh poesy and fresh thought, are devoted 
 to describing and exalting love. I have just re-read 
 the " Yita Nuova," and a few cantos of the " Paradiso ;" 
 the sentiment is so intense that it fills one with fear : 
 these men live in the burning realm where reason 
 melts away. Dante's account of himself, like his poem, 
 shows constant hallucination : he swoons, visions assail 
 him, his body becomes ill, and the whole force of his 
 thoughts is given to the recalling of or commenting 
 on the agonizing or divine spectacles under which he 
 has succumbed."^ He consults various friends about 
 his ecstasies, and they reply to him in verses as myste- 
 rious and as extreme as his own. It is clear that at 
 this moment all the higher culture of the mind is cen- 
 tred around morbid and sublime reveries. Tlie in- 
 
 * Compare the "Aurelia"of Gerard cle Xerval, and the "Inter- 
 mezzo" of Heine. 
 
MYSTIC SYMBOLRY. 23 
 
 itiated use an apocalyptic language, purposely obscure; 
 their words imply double and triple meanings. Dante 
 himself lays it down as a rule that each subject con- 
 tains four. In this state of extremes everything be- 
 comes symboHc : a color like green or red, a number, 
 an hour of the day or of the night, is of peculiar signifi- 
 cance ; it is the blood of Christ, or the emerald fields 
 of paradise, or the virginal azure of heaven, or the 
 sacred cypher of divine personages which thus be- 
 comes present to the mind. Through catalepsies and 
 transports the brain labors, and an overcharged sensi- 
 bility thrills with paroxysms which exalt it to supreme 
 delight or precipitate it into infinite despair. Then 
 do the natural boundaries between the diverse realms 
 of thought become effaced and disappear. The adored 
 mistress is transfigured into the hkeness of a celestial 
 virtue. Scholastic abstractions are transformed into 
 ideal apparitions. Souls congregate in etherial roses, 
 " perpetual flowers of eternal joy which, like a per- 
 fume, make perceptible all odors at once." Brute 
 tangible matter, and the entire scaffolding of dry 
 formulas melt and evaporate on the heights of mystic 
 contemplation, until nothing remains but a melody, a 
 perfume, a luminous ray, or an emblem ; this remnant 
 of terrestrial imagery never having any value in itself, 
 other than to prefigure the unfathomable and ineffable 
 heyond. 
 
 How did they support the anguish and constant ex- 
 cesses of such a condition — the nightmare visions of 
 Hell and Paradise, the tears, the tremors, the swoons, 
 and other alternatives of such a tempest ?* What were 
 the nerves that resisted all this ? What fecundity of 
 soul and of .imagination fed it? All has since degen- 
 erated ; man then was more vigorous, and remained 
 
 * E caddi, come corpo niorto cade. Many similar instances almost 
 equal to this one are to be found in the Divine Comedy. 
 
24 PEEUGIA AND ASSIST. 
 
 young a longer time. I glanced lately over the life of 
 Petrarch, written by himself. He loved Laura fourteen 
 years. Now, the youth of the heart, the age of great 
 discontents and great reveries, last five or six years ; 
 after this one craves a comfortable house and a respect- 
 able position. I imagine that a body tempered by war 
 was more resistant, and that the rude, semi-barbarous 
 regimen which destroyed the weak, allowed only the 
 strong to subsist. But it is especially necessary to con- 
 sider that melancholy, danger, monotony of life with- 
 out diversion, without reading, and ever threatened, de- 
 veloped a capacity for enthusiasm, sublimity, and in- 
 tensity of sentiment. The security, comfort, and ele- 
 gancies of our civilization divide us and belittle us ; a 
 cascade is converted into a marsh. We enjoy and suf- 
 fer through a thousand daily, petty sensations ; in 
 those days, sensibihty, instead of evaporating, became 
 choked up, and accumulated passion burst forth in 
 eruptions. In a Russian romance, Tarass Boulba, a 
 young Cossack chief, on leaving the camp with his 
 senses blunted by the foulness of nomadic Hfe, the 
 odors of brandy and of the stable, and through daily 
 contact with ferocious and brutal beings, perceives a 
 beautiful and delicate maiden in handsome attire ; he 
 is intoxicated, kneels down, forgets father and country, 
 and thenceforth contends against his own kindred. A 
 similar crisis prostrated Dante before a child of nine 
 years. 
 
 Let us dwell a moment on the surrounding con- 
 dition of things. It was an epoch of pitiless wars and- 
 of mortal enmities. People in Florence proscribed 
 each other, and fought from house to house, and from 
 quarter to quarter. Dante himself was condemned to 
 the stake. The torments invented by the Eomanos 
 were still rife in men's imaginations, and a regime 
 worse than our Reign of Terror had taken root be- 
 tween family and family, caste and caste, and city and 
 
EELIGIOUS FERYOR. 25 
 
 cit}^ Out of this bristling precinct tlie mind issued 
 free for the first time after so many centuries, and it 
 entered on an unexplored field. It did not follow its 
 natural bent, as formerly at a similar crisis in the 
 small republics of Greece ; a powerful religion seized 
 upon it at its birth and diverted it off. The supreme 
 good tendered to it was not an equilibrium of moderate 
 sensations and the healthiness of active faculties, but 
 transports of infinite adoration and the raptures of an 
 over-excited imagination. Happiness no longer con- 
 sisted in a consciousness of strength, wisdom and 
 beauty ; in being the honored citizen of a glorious 
 city ; in dancing and singing noble hymns ; in talking 
 with a friend under a tree on a serene day. These 
 pleasures were declared inadequate, low and crim- 
 inal ; appeals were made to feminine sentiments, to 
 nervous sensibility, and man had held out to him 
 ecstatic contemplation, indefinable raptures and de- 
 lights to which the senses, language and the imagina- 
 tion never attain. The sterner life w^as, the more ex- 
 alted were these assurances. The vastness of the con- 
 trast multiplied the charms of the promised bliss, and 
 the heart wdth all its youthful energy rushed through 
 the issue opened to it. Then was seen that strange 
 incongruity of a laic life similar to that of the Greek 
 republics, and a religious life similar to that of the 
 Soiifis of Persia — on the one hand, free citizens, prac- 
 tical men, combatants and artists, and on the other, 
 cloistered ascetics, preachers wandering about half- 
 naked, and penitents offering themselves to the lash ; — 
 furthermore, the two extremes met in one person, the 
 same spirit harboring the most virile energy and the 
 most feminine gentleness ; the same man magistrate 
 and mystic ; a practical politician filled wdth hatred, 
 corresponding in enigmas on the languors and halluci- 
 nations of love ; the chief of a party and the father 
 of a family absorbed with the worship of a dead child, 
 
 2 
 
3b PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 and diffusing over actual landscapes and contemporary 
 figures, over positive interests, local resentments, and 
 the technical science of his country and century, the 
 monstrous or divine illuminations of ecstasy and of 
 horror. 
 
 ' A monk conducted me into the refectorj^, and then 
 through a series of halls to a square interior court 
 where a two-story portico, supported by dehcate Httle 
 columns, forms an elegant promenade. Pavement, col- 
 umns, walls and cisterns, all are of stone ; above, like 
 a frame, runs a roof of reddish tile. The blue sky, like 
 a round dome, overspreads the white square ; no one 
 can imagine the effect of such simple forms and colors. 
 All around the convent winds a second promenade un- 
 der ogive arcades of rough stones turned brown by 
 the sun ; from this the eye embraces the beautiful val- 
 ley and its diadem of snow-clad mountains. The poor 
 monks of the " Fioretti," through impoverishing their 
 life, ennobled it ; tv/o or three sentiments absorbed it 
 entirely, but these were sublime. "Whoever abandoned 
 the brutal herd was compelled to become a great poet ; 
 when he had not become a kneeling machine, he ended 
 in appreciating the serenity and grandeur of scenes 
 like this. " Brother Bernardo lived in contempla- 
 tion on the heights like a SAvallow : for this reason 
 Brother Egidio declared that he was the sole one to 
 whom was awarded the gift of nourishing himself in 
 
 flying like the swallow And Brother Cur- 
 
 rado having performed his orisons here, there appeared 
 to him the Queen of Heaven with her blessed infant 
 in her arms, in great splendor of light, and, approach- 
 ing Brother Currado, she placed in his arms the 
 blessed infant, which Currado having received and very 
 devoutly kissed, and embracing it and pressing it to his 
 bosom, melted away and wholly dissolved in divine 
 love with most inexpressible consolation." 
 
 On the plain below is a large church containing the 
 
OVERBECK. 2? 
 
 saint's lionse ; but it is modern, with a pompous pagan 
 cupola. Overbeck's frescoes are imitations. In striv- 
 ing to be gothic he shows himself awkward, giving 
 twisted necks to his angels, and to the figure of God 
 the pitiful expression of a man whose dinner disagrees 
 with him. You hasten away from them ; after genuine 
 devotion nothing is more disagreeable than its coun- 
 terfeit. 
 
CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 POLITICAL C0]NT3ITI0N.— DIFFICULTIES AND RESOURCES.— DISPOSI- 
 TION OF THE MIDDLE CLASS.— PREDOMINANCE AND PROGRESS 
 OF THE CONSTITUTIONAL AND LIBERAL PARTY.— SY:MPATHY BE- 
 TWEEN ITALY ANT) FRANCE.— INCONVENIENCES AND ADVANTA- 
 GES OF MODERN CENTRALIZATION, 
 
 Ajwil 8. — Numerous conversations every day with 
 people of every class and opinion ; but the liberals 
 predominate. 
 
 The diplomats, they say, are ill-disposed toward the 
 unity of Italy; they do not regard it as substantial. 
 According to the two clever men with whom I have 
 travelled, one an officer and the other an attache to an 
 embassy, the capital trait of the Italians is weakness 
 of character and richness of intellect, quite the oppo- 
 site of the Spaniards, who with a strong will have nar- 
 row and obdurate brains. They dispute about the 
 number of volunteers under Garibaldi in 1859 ; some 
 carry it up to twenty-five hundred, and others to seven 
 thousand, — ^in any event a ridiculously small number. 
 The Emperor Napoleon led the foreign legion with al- 
 most empty regiments ; nobody came forward to fill 
 them up. It seems very hard to the Italian to quit his 
 mistress or wife, to enlist and to undergo discipline ; 
 the military spirit died out a long time ago in the 
 country. According to my friend the officer, who 
 served in the late campaign, Milan furnished in all but 
 eighty volunteers, and the peasantry rather sided with 
 the Austrians. As to either the middle class or the 
 nobles, they were very enthusiastic and made speeches, 
 but their enthusiasm evaporated in words, none of it 
 extending to risking their fives. Generosity, true feel- 
 
POLITICS. 29 
 
 ing, and ardent patriotism were only to be found among 
 the women. After the peace of Villafranca some 
 Frenchmen, lodging near Pescliiera, said to their hosts, 
 "Ah, yon remain Austrians — what a pity!" The 
 daughter of the family did not at first comprehend them, 
 but when she understood their meaning she raised both 
 hands, and, with flaming eyes, asked her brothers if they 
 had no guns and if they called themselves men ; " Never," 
 said the officer, " have I seen an expression so ardent 
 and so sublime !" Her brothers shook their heads and 
 replied with the discreet patience of the Italian, 
 "What is thereto do?" 
 
 This lack of energy contributed a good deal toward 
 precipitating peace. The Emperor Napoleon stated 
 to M. Cavour, " You promised me two hundred thou- 
 sand men, sixty thousand Piedmontese and one hun- 
 dred and forty thousand Italians. You give me thirty 
 thousand ; I shall be compelled to call for one hundred 
 thousand more of the French." If the protected do 
 not aid themselves the protector becomes uneasy and 
 discouraged, and the war suddenly droops. Accus- 
 tomed to yielding, the Italian has lost the faculty of 
 resisting ; if you get angry he is astonished, becomes 
 alarmed, yields and regards you as crazy, (malto). 
 Such is the process by which the fiery M. de Merode 
 obtained an ascendancy over the Sacred College. 
 Now, when a people knows not how to fight, its mde- 
 pendence is only provisional ; its life depends on grace 
 or on accident. 
 
 This is why, they say. Piedmont did wrong to yield 
 to opinion in the taking of Naples. It has made itself 
 so much the weaker ; its army is the worse for recruit- 
 ing its regiments with poor soldiers. If, to-day, it is 
 master there, it is the same as wdth Championnet, 
 Ferdinand, Murat and their predecessors : with ten 
 thousand soldiers one can always be master of Naples ; 
 but let any sudden crisis occur, and the government 
 
30 PEEUGIA AXD ASSIST. 
 
 falls to tlie ground, tins one nmning the same risk as 
 those that have gone before it. It has just committed 
 a serious blunder in abandoning the convents to muni- 
 cipal rancor ; a lot of miserable monks and nuns are 
 turned out of doors, which only excites scandal, and 
 proTokes resentment, as in la Yendee. Now religion 
 here is not abstract or rational as in France ; it is 
 based on the imagination and is so much the more 
 sensitive and vivacious ; some dsLj or other it will inevi- 
 tably turn against liberalism and Piedmont. Besides, 
 the unity of the country is against nature ; Italy, 
 through its geography, its races and its past, is divided 
 into three sections ; the most it can do is to form a 
 federation. If it is kept together to-day, it is through 
 an artificial power, and because France, on the Alps, 
 stands sentinel against Austria. Should a war occur 
 on the Ehine the Emperor will not amuse himseK split- 
 ting up his forces, and then Italy wiU break up into its 
 natural divisions. 
 
 I reply to this that the revolution here is not an 
 affair of race, but one of interests and ideas. It 
 began at the end of the last century, with Beccaria for 
 instance, in the propagation of French literature and 
 philosophy. The middle class, the enhghtened are 
 those who diffuse it by leading the people along with 
 them in their wake, as formerly in the United States 
 during the war of independence. It is a new force, 
 superior to provincial antipathies ; unknown a hundred 
 years ago ; inherent, not in the nerves, in the blood 
 and in the habits, but in the brain, in study and in 
 discussion ; of vast grandeur, since it brought about 
 the American and French revolutions, and growing in 
 grandeur since ceaseless discoveries of the human 
 mind and multiplied ameliorations of the human 
 condition daily contribute to augment it. Will it 
 suffice to sustain Italy ? That is a problem of moral 
 mechanics, and is not to be solved, for lack of the 
 
PATRIOTISM. 31 
 
 means b}' wliicli to estimate the power of the lever in 
 relation to the resistance of the mass. Meanwhile, let 
 us examine a few simple facts ready at hand : it is the 
 only way to arrive at any approximate value of forces 
 which we can see but which we cannot measure. 
 
 Conscripts are passing along the road in gray vests, 
 soldiers in uniform, and frequently handsome officers 
 in blue with a gay and spruce air. Every small town 
 has a national guard : — you will see these guards sit- 
 ting on stone benches in the sunshine at the entrance 
 of town-halls ; — the streets bear the names of Victor 
 Emmanuel, Garibaldi and Solferino. People are in- 
 toxicated with their recent independence, and talk of 
 themselves vain - gloriously . A Roman who is going 
 to Switzerland, remarks that " we have four hundred 
 thousand soldiers and six hundred thousand national 
 guards ; in two years Italy will become united, and we 
 shall then be able to whip the Austrians." — The ex- 
 aggerations of patriotism and of hope are spurs of 
 great utility. 
 
 On the frontier the chief of customs, a Piedmon- 
 tese and formerly a soldier in the Crimea, stormed 
 and railed in the middle of the night in his wooden 
 shanty against Antonelli and Merode, " those brigands 
 and assassins." He descanted on the rights of nations 
 and the duties of citizens. " The atmosphere here is 
 unhealthy four months of the year, the country is 
 gloomy, living is dear and life solitary,— but I serve 
 Italy, I have already served her in the ranks, and I 
 tmst that next year there will be no frontier." — You 
 will note that the comrades of Hoche, a sergeant in 
 1789 in the French guards, uttered substantially the 
 same words and in the same tone. 
 
 At Foligno, in a small cafe, I offer haioccJii in pay- 
 ment ; the proprietor refuses them ; " No, Signor, that 
 money has no value here — we want nothing Roman. 
 Let the Pope and the priests clear out and go to 
 
33 PEEUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 Heaven ! It's the best thing they can do for us ! He 
 is ill now — the sooner it is over the better !" And all 
 this coarsely, amidst the jeers of his wife and of five 
 or six laborers there. — This is a veritable Jacobin 
 household as with us in 1790. 
 
 Yesterday in a public vehicle I had three hours' 
 conversation with my two companions, one a brass- 
 lamp maker of Perugia and the other a peasant and 
 tile-maker. The former is a well-to-do mechanic ; he 
 went to Turin as one of a deputation to Victor Em- 
 manuel, and is a passionate partisan of Italy. His 
 son who had completed his studies and become a 
 painter, enlisted and is serving as a sergeant against 
 the Calabrian brigands. The tile - maker had ten 
 nephews in the army. They were not disposed to be 
 "reserved and gave me innumerable details. 
 
 According to these men every thing is going on 
 well. Out of twenty persons, fifteen are for the gov- 
 ernment, four for the pope and one repubhcan. The 
 republicans have entirely lost ground; they are re- 
 garded as fanatics (fantastici). The peasantry are 
 daily coming round to the government ; they are al- 
 ready hunting out refractory conscripts (renitenti) and 
 bringing them back. The conscription was a sore trial 
 to them, but they are getting used to it. In the army 
 the young men eat good food, return home strong and 
 active, and with a martial spirit ; the effect is wonder- 
 ful on the young girls, and consequently on the young 
 men, and yet again on their parents and neighbors. 
 Taxes are unquestionably more onerous ; but every- 
 body works and doubly profits by it. People are 
 building and repairing. Spoleto is completely reno- 
 vated ; gas has been introduced at Perugia ; the rail- 
 road to Ancona progresses and there is great excite- 
 ment everywhere. " The farthings circulate !" ( Tutti 
 i quattrini lavorano.) 
 
 The entire middle class is enthusiastic in this sense 
 
PATRIOTISM. 33 
 
 In a population of 82,000 at PeiTigia tliere are 1400 
 members of tlie national guard, including merchants, 
 shop-keepers and prominent, well-established people. 
 The J do patrol duty with the soldiers, drill, subject 
 themselves to inconveniences, and contentedly. " I 
 have made sacrifices for my country," said my banker, 
 "and am willing to make still greater ones." There 
 are no more municipal or provincial rivalries ; Flor- 
 ence has sent back to Pisa in token of fraternity the 
 chains of its harbor vv^hich she had formerly captured. 
 I point to an officer passing and ask if he is not a 
 Piedmontese. "No more Piedmontese — we are all 
 mixed up in the army — nobody now but ItaKans!" 
 
 They have all the confidence and illusions of 1789. 
 On remarking that the Italian army had not yet de- 
 monstrated its capacity : — " We fought at Milan in 
 1848, and in three days, drove off alone the Austrians. 
 We fought also at Perugia, against the Swiss, who 
 massacred the women and children ; — I was then in 
 the cavalry. There was a fortress against the town, — 
 look, that is all there is left of it ; — we are converting 
 it into a museum. No, no, we have no fear of the Aus- 
 trians. We had seventy thousand volunteers against 
 them in 1859. In two years more the peasantry will 
 rise to a man and we will drive them out of Yenice." 
 (Seven thousand volunteers have become seventy. 
 But the people are poetic ; the more they magnify, 
 the more they exalt themselves.) 
 
 There is the same anti-ecclesiastic rigidity as in 
 our revolution. According to my two companions " the 
 priests are scamps (birhantij ; the government does 
 right in confiscating the property of the monks ; it 
 ought to drive away every rascal who openly agitates 
 against it. Before 1859 they were all-powerful and 
 meddled in domestic matters ; they were tried by a 
 special tribunal and never punished. Now they lower 
 their heads ; two of them have lately been condemned 
 
34 PEKUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 for crimes and everybody rejoices. They did nothing 
 but harm. The beggars, children, and adults, who 
 beset us at Assisi are of their providing, physically 
 as well as morally. They corrupted women, encour- 
 aged idleness through their mendicity, and main- 
 tained a state of ignorance ; but now instruction is 
 everywhere diffused, each commune having its own 
 school ; — there are thirteen in Assisi, which has but 
 three thousand inhabitants." A beggar attached him- 
 self to our vehicle. " Be off, you knave ! go to the 
 monks — among them you will find your father !" The 
 beggar with his obsequious, sly Italian smile replied, 
 " No, signor, I do not belong to this part of the coun- 
 try, give me a little something." 
 
 Many trifling circumstances bear witness to this 
 resentment against the clergy. Lately, at Foligno, in 
 a masquerade, the pope and the cardinals were trav- 
 estied in the streets with shouts, laughter and uni- 
 versal excitement. — In Perugia, alongside of San Do- 
 menico, stands a blackfriar's convent converted into 
 a military barracks. The soldiers, on entering it, 
 pierced the frescos of the inner wall with their bay- 
 onets. The lacerated figures are now falling off in 
 fragments ; one can scarcely distinguish, here and 
 there, the forms of some of the personages. The 
 smoke of a soldier's kitchen suffices to destroy the 
 finest group. — A quarter of an hour after this, at San 
 Pietro, a priest informed us with a sad look, that on 
 entering that place they had also torn away paintings 
 in another chapel. He uttered this with a melanchol}^, 
 humiliated aspect ; the ecclesiastics here do not speak 
 in the same tone as at Rome. — These outrages are 
 similar to those of our revolution : the layman and 
 military barracks are substitutes without transition 
 for the ecclesiastic and the monastery. This antag- 
 onism provokes thought ; there is little probability of 
 its ending ; it has never ended in France ; the revoiu- 
 
MODEKN EEFOKMS. 35 
 
 tion and Catholicism still remain under arms and in 
 battle array. Protestant peoples, the English for ex- 
 ample, are more fortunate. Luther has there recon- 
 ciled the Church and society. Marrying the priest, 
 making of him by education and habit a sort of more 
 serious layman, elevating the layman to reflection and 
 criticism by giving him the Bible and an exegesis, 
 suppressing the ascetic portion of religion and infus- 
 ing into society the conscience as moral guide, is the 
 greatest of modern revolutions. The two spirits har- 
 monize in Protestant countries ; they remain hostile in 
 Catholic countries and, unfortunately, to their hostility 
 one sees no limit. Another merchant, an officer, and 
 my purveyor with whom I chat entertains me with 
 similar views. What an animated and complete under- 
 standing these Italians have ! Here is a domestic who 
 tells me all about himself, his marriage and his views 
 of life, who reasons and judges like a cultivated man. — 
 A miserable guide, half beggar, in a shop at Assisi ex- 
 pressed well-connected opinions and explained to me, 
 skeptically, the state of the country. " The peasantry 
 hunt after the conscripts, " he said" because they are 
 jealous ; their sons have been taken and they wish to 
 have the sons of others caught. The rich always eat 
 up the poor while the poor never eat up the rich." 
 There is a great readiness of conception and prompt- 
 ness of expression ; such a people is always prepared 
 for political discussion ; you notice it in the cafes ; the 
 ardor and copiousness of discussion are surprising, 
 and likewise its good sense. In the upheaval of a gen- 
 eral revolution and of a vacillating government every 
 town is self-administered and self-supporting. 
 
 They agree generally in this, that the liberal party is 
 progressing. According to my friend the young officer 
 the number of the refractory diminishes every year ; this 
 year some borough near Orvieto, where he is in garri- 
 son, no longer possesses one. At Foligno, where he 
 
S6 PEEUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 has lived, only two or three old papal families are named ; 
 they are avaricious and behind the age, one being re- 
 lated to a cardinal ; the rest of the town is for Victor 
 Emmanuel. Ecclesiastical property is rented at low 
 rates to the peasantry, which reconciles them to the 
 government ; the result will be a sale of it to them and 
 then they will become openly patriotic. In short the 
 enemy of the new order of things is the clergy, 
 monks who are reduced to fifteen cents a day and 
 priests who advise young men to avoid the conscrip- 
 tion, and to pass over the Koman frontier. — Finally, like 
 almost all the Italians I have seen, he is Catholic and a 
 believer; he blames the " Diritto'' a violent jacobin 
 journal, and thinks that religion may accommodate itself 
 to the civil government. What he disapproves of is 
 the temporal authority of the clergy; let the priests 
 confine themselves to their functions as priests, admin- 
 ister the sacraments and set an example of good be- 
 havior ; once under proper restraint they will become 
 better. At Orvieto, where he lives, many of the children 
 in the town are attributed to the monks, which is an 
 evil. He admires our clergy, so correct, and never pro- 
 voking scandal ; he approves of the prescribed cos- 
 tume of our priests, — in Italy they are only required 
 to dress in black. He ridicules those Roman monsig- 
 nore, set to watch over morals and superintend the 
 theatres, who enter the box of the leading danseuse in 
 order to forbid her to indulge in caprices. Accord- 
 ing to him such an order of things excites people against 
 religion itself. At Sienna, in the shop-windows, we 
 have just seen a translation of " le Maudit," and the 
 " Yie de Jesus," the last work of Strauss, and an engrav- 
 ing representing Truth overwhelming obstinate and 
 hypocritical priests. 
 
 My impression of the country between Perugia and 
 Sienna is that it is similar to France. The villagers are 
 about as well clad as our own ; they have more horses, 
 
RESEMBLANCE TO FRANCE. 37 
 
 and many among them are landowners. The aspect of 
 the villages and of the small towns reminds one of our 
 South. The country is of the same structure — small 
 valleys and moderate elevations — the soil seeming to 
 be as well cultivated. The garrison anecdotes which 
 my friend the officer relates to me and the interiors of 
 the inns and of the middle-class tenements with which 
 I glance recall trait for trait a journey I made last 
 year in the middle and south of France. To complete 
 the resemblance soldiers are everywhere seen on the 
 road, on furlough, or proceeding to join their regi- 
 ments ; the people are as gay and their conversation 
 as animated as with us. The boroughs and small 
 towns wear that provincial aspect, somewhat dull and 
 tolerably clean, which we are so familiar with. It 
 might be called a backward France, a younger sister 
 that is growing and " catching up " with the elder. If 
 we consider the contending parties, on the one side 
 the nobles and clergy, and on the other the middle and 
 commercial class, people of education and the liberal 
 professions, and between the two the peasantry which 
 the revolution is trying to emancipate from traditional 
 influences, the resemblance becomes striking. To 
 complete it, it is evident by their conversation, that 
 their model is France ; they repeat our ancient ideas 
 and confine themselves to reading our books. Slight- 
 ly cultivated people know French and scarcely ever 
 English or German : our language is the only one like 
 theirs, and besides, they, like ourselves, require gayety, 
 wit, the agreeable and even license ; one finds in 
 their hands not only our good authors but our second- 
 class romances, our minor newspapers and low-class 
 literature. Their great reforms all take place in the 
 same sense ; they have imitated our coinage and our 
 measures ; they are organizing a salaried church with- 
 out private property, primary schools, a national guard 
 and the rest. 
 
o» PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 I am aware of tlie drawbacks to our system, — the 
 suppression of all superior ranks ; the reduction of all 
 ambitions and of all mind to the commonplace ideas 
 and enterprises of 'life ; the abolition of the proud and 
 lofty sentiments of one brought up in command, the 
 protector and natural representative of those around 
 him ; the uniyersal multiplication of the envious, nar- 
 row-minded, insipid hourgeois as described by Henri 
 Monnier ; all the wear and tear, vileness and impoverish- 
 ment of head and heart from which aristocratic coun- 
 tries are exempt. Nevertheless, such as it is, their 
 form of civiKzation is passable and preferable to many 
 others, and natural enough to Latin populations ; and 
 France, which is now the first of Latin nations, takes 
 the lead with its revolution and its civil code among 
 its neighbors. 
 
 This social structure consists in this : a great central 
 government with a powerful army, heavy imposts and a 
 vast corps of functionaries restrained by honor and 
 who do not peculate ; — a small portion of land to each 
 peasant, besides schools and other facilities to enable 
 him to mount upward to a higher class if he has capa- 
 city ; — a hierarchy of public offices open to the ambi- 
 tion of the middle class, all unfairness being limited 
 through the organization of examinations and competi- 
 tions, all aspiration being kept within bounds and satis- 
 fied by promotion which is slow but sure ; — in short 
 the almost equal partition of all desirable things so 
 that every one may have a share — nobody a very large 
 one — and almost all one of small or mediocre propor- 
 tions; and, above all, internal security, a fair sum of 
 justice and of fame, and national glory. All this goes 
 to make up a partially instructed, very well protected, 
 tolerably regulated and very inert hourgeois, whose sole 
 thought is to pass from an income of two thousand 
 francs a year to one of six thousand. In a word a mul- 
 titude of the half-cultivated and the half-rich, twenty 
 
THE MODEL BOURGEOIS. 39 
 
 or tliirty millions of individuals passably contented, 
 carefully penned, drilled and restrained, and who, when 
 necessity calls, can be launched forth in a single body. 
 Taking things in gross it is about what men have thus 
 far found to be best ; nevertheless we must wait a 
 century to see England, Austria and America. 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 FEOM PEEUGIA TO SEENNA.— ASPECT OF SIENNA.— TKANSITION FEOM 
 A REPUBLICAN TO A MONARCHICAL SYSTEM.— MEDLEVAL MONXJ- 
 l^IENTS.- THE CATHEDRAL.— ITALIAN -GOTHIC ARCHITECTURE.— 
 NICHOLAS OF PISA.— EARLY SCULPTURE.— APPRECIATION OF FORM 
 IN THE RENAISSANCE. 
 
 Sienna, April 8. — The country becomes flat between 
 Chiasi and Sienna ; we enter Tuscany ; marshes in 
 the distance spread out their dingy and sickly verdure. 
 A little farther on there are low hills and then gray 
 slopes covered with the black twisted sprouts of the 
 vine ; it is a meagre and flat French landscape. An 
 old city surrounded with brown walls appears at the 
 left, on a hill, and we then enter Sienna. 
 
 It is an old repubhc of the middle ages, and often on 
 the maps of the sixteenth century, I had contemplated 
 its abrupt silhouette, bristling with bastions, crowded 
 with fortresses and filled with evidences of public and 
 private contention. Public wars against Pisa Florence 
 and Perugia, private wars among the bourgeoisie the 
 nobles and the people, street combats, massacres in the 
 town-hall, violations of the constitution, exile of all no- 
 bles capable of using arms, exile of four thousand arti- 
 sans, proscriptions, confiscations, wholesale executions, 
 plots of the exiled against the city, popular insurrec- 
 tions, despair carried even to the surrender of liberties 
 and submission to a foreign yoke, sudden and furious 
 rebellions, clubs similar to those of the Jacobins, asso- 
 ciations like those of the carbonari, a desperate siege 
 like that of Warsaw, and systematic depopulation like 
 that of Poland, — nowhere has life been so tragic. 
 From two hundred thousand inhabitants the popula- 
 tion of the city fell to six thousand. The enmities re- 
 
SIENNA. 41 
 
 quired to exhaust a people of sucli vivacity cannot be 
 told. Of all human creatures the feudal Italian was 
 the most richly endowed with an active will and con- 
 centrated passions, and he bled himself, and was bled, 
 to the last drop in his veins before sinking down into 
 the bed of monarchical tranquillity. Cosmo II., in or- 
 der to remain master, destroyed by starvation, war and 
 executions fifty thousand peasants. At this epoch we 
 see in engravings, defiling on the republican piazza, 
 pompous cavalcades, mythological chariots, reviews 
 and the livery of the new prince. The artist indulges 
 in interminable adulation on the margin of his picture. 
 Servile manners, somnolency, worn out gallantry and 
 universal inertia become established. Sienna is re- 
 duced to a provincial town, visited by tourists. I am 
 told by an ecclesiastical acquaintance that when he 
 came here in 1821 the lifelessness and ignorance of the 
 place were complete. Two days in a vettura were 
 necessary in order to go from Sienna to Florence. A 
 noble before setting out on his journe}^ confessed him- 
 seK and made his will. There was not a library, not a 
 book. One day my clerical friend, who is Hberal and in- 
 telligent, subscribes to two French newspapers. Some 
 one pays him a visit ; " What, have you a French news- 
 paper!" The visitor takes hold of it and feels the 
 miraculous godsend. Twenty minutes after this the 
 ecclesiastic goes out for a walk. The first person he en- 
 counters exclaims, " Is it true that you have a French 
 newspaper?" and then another who utters the same 
 thing, the report having S23read instantaneously like a 
 ray of light in a chamber closed for a century. 
 
 A town thus preserved is like a Pompeii of the middle 
 ages. You ascend and descend steep narrow streets 
 paved with stone and bordered with monumental 
 houses. A few still retain their towers. In the vicinity 
 of the Piazza they succeed each other in rows, forming 
 lines of enormous bosses, low porches and curious 
 
42 PEEUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 masses of brick pierced with occasional windows. 
 Several of the palaces seem like bastions. The Piazza 
 is surrounded with them ; no sight more aptly suggests 
 to the imagination the municipal and violent customs of 
 ancient times. This square is irregular in shape and 
 in surface, and is peculiar and striking like all natural 
 objects that have not been deformed or reformed by ad- 
 ministrative discipline. Facing it, is the Palazzo Pub- 
 lico, a massive town-hall adapted to resist sudden at- 
 tacks and for the issue of proclamations to the crowd 
 assembled in the open square. Frequently have these 
 been cast from these ogive windows and likewise the 
 bodies of the men killed in the seditions. The cornice 
 bristles with battlements ; defence in these days is 
 often encountered under ornament. To the left of this 
 the symmetrical form of a gigantic tower with its 
 double expansion of battlements rises to a prodigious 
 height ; it is the tower of the city which plants on its 
 summit its saint and its standard and speaks afar to 
 distant cities. At its base the Gaja fountain which in 
 the fourteenth century, amid universal acclamation, 
 brought water for the first time to the pubhc square, 
 stands framed in by one of the most elegant of marble 
 baldachins. 
 
 It was growing late and I entered the cathedral for 
 a moment. The impression is incomparable ; that of 
 St. Peter's at Kome does not approach it : a surprising 
 richness and sincerity of invention, the most admirable 
 of gothic flowers — but of a new gothic that has 
 bloomed in a better clime, in the midst of genius of a 
 higher culture ; more serene, more beautiful, more re- 
 ligious and yet healthy, and which is to our cathedrals 
 what the poems of Dante and Petrarch are to the songs 
 of our trouveres ; a pavement and pillars with stones of 
 alternate courses of white and black marble, a legion 
 of animated statues, a natural combination of gothic 
 and roman forms, corinthian capitals bearing a laby- 
 
SIENNA CATHEDEAL. 43 
 
 rintli of gilded arcades and arches panelled with azure 
 and stars. The declining sun streams in at the door 
 and the enormous vault with its forest of columns spar- 
 kles in the shadow above the crowd kneeling in the naves 
 and chapel, and around the columns. The multitude 
 in the profound darkness swarms indistinctly up to the 
 foot of the altar, which, all at once, with its bronzes 
 and candelabra and the damask copes of its priests and 
 the prodigal magnificence of its jewels and tapers, rises 
 upward hke a bouquet of light of magical splendor. 
 
 Aj^ril 8. — I passed half of the day in this church ; 
 one might easily pass a whole day there. For the first 
 time elsewhere than in engravings I find an Italian- 
 Gothic, the earliest of two renaissance periods, less 
 pure than the other but more spontaneous. 
 
 A grand portal decked with statues projects above its 
 three entrances three pointed pediments, over these 
 pediments three pointed gables, around these gables 
 four pointed spires and all of them crenelated with 
 openings ; but the arch of the doors is Boman : the 
 facade, in spite of its elongated angles, has latin rem- 
 iniscences : the decoration is not of the filagree order 
 and the statues are not a multitude. The architect 
 loves the up-springing forms derived from the north, 
 but he likewise loves the solid forms bequeathed to 
 him by ancient tradition. If, in the interior, he masses 
 columns together in piers, if he spins out and surrounds 
 the windows with trefoils and mullions, if he curves the 
 windows into ogives, he suspends aloft the aerial rotun- 
 dity of the dome, he garlands his capitals with the Co- 
 rinthian acanthus and diffuses throughout his work an 
 air of joyousness and strength through the firmness 
 of his forms, an appropriate distribution of light and a 
 lustrous assortment of marbles. His church is christian, 
 but of a Christianity other than that of the north, less 
 grandiose and less impassioned, but less morbid and 
 less violent, as if the sprightliness innate in the Italian 
 
44 
 
 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 genius and the early impulse of laic culture had tempered 
 the sublime phrensy of the middle ages, and preserved 
 for the soul a hope on earth by leaving to it an issue in 
 heaven. Of what' avail are rules ? and how insignifi- 
 cant are the barriers of the schools ? Here are men 
 who stood with one foot in the renaissance and the other 
 in the middle age, diverted both ways, so that their 
 work could not fail to miscarry and contradict itself. 
 It does not miscarry, and its contradictions harmonize. 
 And for this reason, that, in their breast,both sentiments 
 operated energetically and sincerely ; that suffices for 
 good work ; life begets life. 
 
 You enter. The same marriage of ideas reappears 
 in all the details. On each side of the door they have 
 set up two admirable corinthian columns, but they have 
 appropriated the Greek column by clothing the shaft 
 with a profusion of small nude figures, hippogriffs, birds, 
 and acanthus leaves interlaced and winding about to 
 the top. — Three paces farther on are two charming 
 holy- water fonts, two small columns decked with grapes, 
 figures and garlands, each bearing on its top a cup of 
 white marble. One, they say, is antique ; the other 
 must be of about the beginning of the fifteenth cen- 
 tury. The heads and torsions of these small figures 
 remind one of Albert Durer ; the feet and knees are some- 
 what salient ; they are naked females with their hands tied 
 behind their backs ; the artist in order to obtain true 
 action does not fear to sHghtly disfigure the breast. 
 Thus is developed between Nicholas of Pisa and 
 Jacopo della Querela an entire school of sculpture, a 
 complete art, already perfect like a healthy lively child 
 struggling in its catholic swaddling clothes. 
 
 Finally, there is the celebrated pulpit of Nicholas of Pi- 
 sa, the renovator of sculpture (1266). What can be more 
 precious than these early works of the modern mind ? 
 Our true ancestors are here, and one craves to know 
 the way in which, at this early dawn, they compre- 
 
THE PULPIT. 45 
 
 liencled man as we of to-day regard liim ; for, when 
 an artist creates a type, it is as if he expressed by flesh 
 and bones his conception of human nature ; and this 
 conception once popular, the rest follows. I have no 
 words to express the originality and richness of inven- 
 tion displayed in this pulpit. It is as peculiar as it is 
 beautiful. The pedestals consist of honesses, each 
 holding a lamb in its jaws, or sucked by its young ; the 
 quaint symbolism of the middle ages is here apparent ; 
 but from the bodies of these lionesses spring eight 
 small, pure Avhite columns expanding into a rich cluster 
 of leaves, entirely original in taste, and which join to- 
 gether in trefoils supporting a sort of octagonal arch 
 or coffer of the simplest and most natural form possi- 
 ble. On the entablature of each column sits a woman ; 
 several wear the crowns of empresses, and all hold in- 
 fants that are whispering to them in their ears. One 
 loses sight of their being of stone, so animated is their 
 expression ; it is more decided than in the antique. In 
 this joj'ousness of primitive invention the new concep- 
 tions so suddenly obtained are dwelt on to excess ; it is 
 a pleasure to perceive, for the first time, a soul, and the 
 attitude which manifests that soul ! Ideas did not 
 abound in those days, and they clung all the closer to 
 those they had. Through a striking innovation the 
 body, neck, and head, somewhat too large, have a sort 
 of Doric heaviness ; but this only adds to their vigor. 
 Leaving behind him the meagre, ascetic saint, the art- 
 ist, in imitation of the antique bas-reliefs, abeady con- 
 structs the firm bony framework, fine, well-proportioned 
 limbs, and the healthy flesh of renaissance figures. In 
 northern sculptures, the physiognomies and attitudes of 
 northern artists, when their genius blooms out in the 
 fifteenth century,* are delicate, pensive, emotional, and 
 
 * See the sculptures of the church of Brou, of Strasbourg cathedral, 
 and the tomb of the Duke of Brittany at Nantes. 
 
46 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 always ingeniously personal. These, on the contrary, 
 display the simplicity, breadth, and gravity of ancient 
 pagan heads. It seems that the Italian, as he at this 
 moment first opens his mouth, resumes the grave, man- 
 ly discourse arrested twelve hundred years before on the 
 lips of his brothers of Greece and of his ancestors of 
 Rome. 
 
 On the panels of the pulpit a labyrinth of crowded 
 figures — a long octagonal procession, the Nativity, the 
 Passion, and the Las-t Judgment, — envelop the marble 
 with their marble covering. Apostles and virgins 
 stand or sit on the angles, uniting and separating the 
 diverse incidents of the legend. The margins are filled 
 with a delicate and rich vegetation of marble inter- 
 twined with arabesque and with foliage, a most luxuri- 
 ous display of hght and complicated ornaments. One 
 recoils astonished at this richness, and then perceives 
 that he is walking on figures. The entire floor of the 
 church is incrusted with them ; it is a mosaic of charac- 
 ters seemingly traced with a pencil on the broad slabs. 
 There are some of all ages, from the birth of art to its 
 maturity. Figures, processions, combats, castles, and 
 landscapes ; the feet tread on scenes and men belonging 
 to the fourteenth and the two following centuries. The 
 most ancient, indeed, are rigid, like feudal tapestries: 
 Samson rending the lion's jaw, Absalom suspended by 
 his hair, with large, open, idiotic eyes, and the murdered 
 Innocents, — reminding one of the manikins of the mis- 
 sals : but, as one advances he sees life animating the 
 limbs. The grand white sibyls, on the black pavement 
 display the nobleness and gravity of goddesses. Innu- 
 merable heads impress one with their breadth and 
 firmness of character. The artist as yet sees nothing 
 in the human organism but its general framework ; he 
 is not distracted as we are by a multiplicity of grada- 
 tions, by the knowledge of an infinity of spiritual modi- 
 fications and innumerable changes of physiognomy. 
 
BECCAFUMI. 47 
 
 For tin's reason he can produce beings who, through 
 their calmness, seem to be superior to the agitations of 
 life. A primitive soul creates primitive souls. In the 
 time of Raphael this art is complete : and the greatest 
 of the three niello artists on stone, Beccafumi, has 
 covered the space around the high altar and the pave- 
 ment of the cupola with his designs. His half-naked 
 Eve, his Israelites slain for espousing the Midianite 
 women, his Abraham sacrificing, are superb figures of 
 a wholly pagan conception, — often with torsos and at- 
 titudes like those of Michael Angelo, but yet simple. 
 It is only at that time that they knew how to make 
 bodies.* 
 
 The great man himself has worked here : they attrib- 
 ute to him an admirable little chapel in which small 
 figures appear, ranged above each other in shell niches 
 amongst light arabesques and winding over the white 
 marble. His predecessors, the most glorious restorers 
 of art, keep him company ; under the altar, in a low 
 chapel, a " St. John" by Donatello, and vigorous fig- 
 ures with knotted muscles and contorted necks impress 
 one with their energy and youthfulness. To see this 
 pavement, these walls, these altars thus filled and 
 crowded, these files of figures and of heads ascending 
 on the efflorescences of the capitals, extending in lines 
 along the friezes and covering the entire field of view, it 
 is evident that the arts of design were the spontaneous 
 language of this epoch, that men spoke the language 
 without effort, that it is the natural mould of their 
 thought, that this thought and this imagination, fecund 
 for the first time, blossomed outwardly with an in- 
 exhaustible generation of forms, that they are like 
 youths whose tongues are unloosed and who say too 
 much because they have not spoken before. 
 
 Too many beautiful or curious things is a constantly 
 
 * See the cartoons in the Institute of the Fine Arts at Sienna. 
 
48 
 
 PERUGIA AND ASSIST. 
 
 recurring remark here ; for example the Lihraria ex- 
 tending to the cathedral and built at the end of the fif- 
 teenth century. Here are ten frescoes by Pinturicchio, 
 the history of Pius 'II., several figures of females very 
 chaste and very elegant, the work however being still 
 literal and dry. The painter preserves the costumes of 
 the time, the emperor being represented in a gilded 
 robe with the exaggerated display of the middle ages. 
 Pinturicchio employed Raphael on his cartoons ; here 
 the passage from the old to the new school is appar- 
 ent ; from master to pupil the distance is infinite, and 
 eyes that have just left the Vatican are fully sensible 
 of it. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF PAINTING AT SIENNA AND PISA.— CREATIVE ENERGY 
 IN SOCIETY AND IN THE ARTS.— DUCCIO DA SIENNA.— SIMONE 
 MEMML— THE LORENZETTI.— MATTEO DA SIENNA. 
 
 This Sienna, so fallen, was the early instructress in, 
 and mistress of, the beautiful. Here and at Pisa we 
 find the most ancient school. Nicholas of Pisa is Sien- 
 nese by his father. The revivor of mosaic art in the 
 thirteenth century is Jacopo da Turrita, a Franciscan 
 monk of Sienna. The oldest Italian painting that is 
 known is a crucified Christ with lank limbs and droop- 
 ing head in the church at Assisi by Giunta, a Pisan.* 
 Here, even, at San Domenico, Guido of Sienna painted 
 in 1271 the pure sweet face of a Madonna which already 
 far surpasses the mechanical Byzantine art. This cor- 
 ner of Tuscany had freed itself from feudal barbarism 
 before the rest of Italy. Abeady in 1100, Pisa, the first 
 of maritime republics, traded and fought throughout the 
 Levant, creating a school of architecture and building 
 its cathedral. A century later Sienna attained to its 
 full power and, in 1260, crushed Florence at the battle 
 of Montaperto. They were so many new Athens, com- 
 mercial and belligerent like the ancient city, and genius 
 and love of beauty were born with them as with the 
 old city in contact with enterprise and danger. Con- 
 fined to our great administrative monarchies, restrained 
 by the long literary and scientific traditions of which 
 we wear the chain, we no longer find within us the force 
 and creative audacity which then animated mankind. 
 "We are oppressed by our work itself ; we limit with our 
 
 * 1236. He wlioll}^ acquired his art here, about 1210. 
 
 3 
 
50 
 
 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 own hand onr own field of action. We aspire to con- 
 tribute only one stone to the vast structure which suc- 
 cessive generations have been erecting for so many- 
 centuries. We do not know what active energies the 
 human heart and intellect can generate, all that the 
 human plant can put forth of root, branch and flower on 
 encountering the soil and the season it needs. T\Tien 
 the State was not a lumbering machine composed of 
 bureaucratic springs and only intelligible to pure reason, 
 but a city evident to the senses and adapted to the or- 
 dinary capacity of the individual, man loved it, not 
 spasmodically as at present, but daily, in every thought, 
 and the part he took in public matters exalting his 
 heart and understanding, planted in him the sentiments 
 and ideas of a citizen and not those of a bourgeois. A 
 shoemaker gave his money in order that the church of 
 his city might be the most beautiful ; a weaver poHshed 
 his sword in the evening determined that he would be 
 not the subject but one of the lords of a rival city. 1 At 
 a certain degTee of tension every soul is a vibrating 
 cord ; it is only necessary to touch it to make it utter 
 most beautiful tones. ! Let us picture to ourselves this 
 nobleness and this energy diffused through every strata 
 from top to bottom of a civic community ; let us add to 
 this an estabhshed, increasing prosperity, that seK-con- 
 fidence, that sentiment of joy which man experiences 
 in a consciousness of strength ; let us banish fi'om be- 
 fore our eyes that load of traditions and acquisitions 
 which to-day embarrass us, as well as our wealth ; let us 
 consider man free and self-surrendered in that desert 
 due to degeneracy and we will then understand why 
 here, as in the time of ^schylus, the arts arose in the 
 midst of pubhc affairs ; why a fallow soil, bristhng with 
 every political brier produced more than our well-tilled 
 and registered fields ; why partisans, combatants and 
 navigators at the height of their perils, their preoccu- 
 j)ations and their ignorance, created and revived beauti- 
 
DUCCIO. 
 
 51 
 
 fill forms with an instinctive certainty, a fecundity of 
 genius to wliicli the leisure and the erudition of the 
 present day cannot attain. 
 
 Slowly and painfully, beneath sculpture and architec- 
 ture, painting develops itself ; this is a more complicated 
 art than the others. Time was necessary in order to 
 discover perspective ; a more sensual paganism was 
 necessary in order to appreciate color. Man, at this 
 epoch, is still quite christian ; Sienna is the city of the 
 Virgin and places itself under her protection as Athens 
 under that of Pallas ; with an entirely different moral 
 standard and different legends the sentiment is the 
 same, the local saint corresponding to the local divinity. 
 "When Duccio in 1311 finished his Madonna the people 
 in its joy came and took him from his studio and bore 
 him in procession to the church ; the bells rang and 
 many of the crowd carried tapers in thek hands. The 
 painter inscribed under his picture, " Holy Mother of 
 God, grant peace to the people of Sienna ; grant life to 
 Duccio since he has thus painted thee !"^ His virgin 
 testifies to a still unskilful hand, resembling the paint- 
 ing of missals ; but around her and the infant she holds 
 in her arms are several heads of saints already singu- 
 larly beautiful and calm. Twenty-seven compartments, 
 the entri^e story of Christ placed in the chapel facing it, 
 accompany them. The sky is of gold and golden 
 aurioles envelop the small figures. In this light the 
 figures, almost black, seem like a remote vision, and 
 when formerly they were over the altar, the kneeling 
 people, who caught distant glimpses of their grave 
 grouping, must needs have felt the mysterious emotion, 
 the subhme anxiety of christian faith before these 
 human apparitions profiled in multitudes in the bright- 
 ness of eternal day. 
 
 * Mater sancta Dei, sis causa Senis requiei 
 Sis Ducio vita, te quia pinixit ita. 
 
53 PEEUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 At tlie Institute of tlie Fine Arts are the pictures of 
 Duccio and of his contemporaries and successors, 
 the entire series, of the old masters of Sienna, and 
 almost all taken from convents. In these pictures the 
 nuns have scratched out the eyes of the demons and 
 marred the faces of the persecutors with their nails 
 and scissors. There is but little progress apparent ; 
 the picture is yet an object of religion rather than of 
 art, as may be well conceived by these thoughtless 
 mutilations. It is at the hotel-de-ville of Sienna that 
 this art is the most expressive. A gallery is always a 
 gallery and works of art, like the productions of nature, 
 lose haK their spirit when removed from their milieu. 
 They must be seen along with their surroundings on 
 the great wall whose nudity they covered, in the Kght 
 of the ogive windows which illuminated them, and in 
 the halls where the magistrates sat attired like their 
 own personages. One might pass a couple of months 
 in this palace studying feudal manners and customs 
 without exhausting the ideas it provides : figures, cos- 
 tumes, youthful cavaliers and veteran men-at-arms, 
 lines of battle and religious processions. Colorless, 
 grave, sombre even, rigid and stiff, such are the terms 
 that enter the mind before this art. The fourteenth 
 century is incarnated in these paintings ; we feel the 
 constant presence of strife, the forced adhesion to the 
 breast of danger, the abortive aim at more blooming 
 beauty, and a freer harmony. This is the epoch of 
 horrible intestine wars, of condottieri and the Yisconti, 
 of deliberate torments and atrocious tyrannies, of a 
 tottering faith and a crumbling mysticism and of the 
 half-visible, experimental and fruitless renaissance. 
 With his tragic, skeptical, sensual tales clad in Cicero- 
 nian periods, Boccaccio is the faithful image of it.* 
 
 * Compare his " Bride of the King of Garbe " with that of La 
 Fontaine. 
 
SIENNESE AETISTS. 53 
 
 In these are the characters and aspirations of the time. 
 Simone Memmi, the painter of Laura and the friend of 
 Petrarch, has painted in the great council chamber a 
 Yirgin under a canopy surrounded by saints, grave 
 and noble heads in the style of Giotto ; and a little 
 farther on, Guido Kicci, a captain of the day, on a 
 caparisoned horse — a realistic personage ; in these we 
 see painting becoming laic."^ One of the Lorenzetti 
 has heaped up near this conflicts of armor and combats 
 of people ; and Spinello Spinelli, in the prior's hall, has 
 represented the victory of Alexander II. over Frederic 
 Barbarossa, the emperor lying stretched on his back 
 before the pope,t also naval combats and processions 
 of troops ; — art here is taking a historic and realistic 
 turn. Ambrogio Lorenzetti, in the haU of archives, 
 has portrayed good and bad government,^ a defile of 
 grand personages beneath a reclining female, already 
 beautiful, draped in white with a laurel branch over her 
 blonde tresses, all this according to that Aristotle so 
 denounced by Petrarch, and so dear to the liberal- 
 minded now multiplying ; — it seems as if painting was 
 running into a philosophical vein. I pass many others 
 in which the taste for actual life, for local history, and 
 for the antique — everything approaching the renais- 
 sance — is visible ; but it is in vain — they fall short, 
 merely standing on its threshold. A St. Barbara by 
 Matteo da Sienne, in 1478, in the Church of St. Domi- 
 nic, soft and pure but without relief and surrounded 
 by gold, is simply a hieratic figure. And Leonardo da 
 Yinci is aheady twenty-six ! How comprehend so long 
 a halt ! How comes it that after Giotto, among so 
 many groupings, painters do not succeed in putting on 
 their canvases one solid form of flesh with life in it ? 
 What stopped them half-way in spite of so many trials, 
 after such a universal and happy early inspiration? 
 
 * From 1316 to 1328. f 1400. t 1340. 
 
64 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 The question becomes irresistible when one contem- 
 plates in this same palace, in the Institute of the Fine 
 Arts, and in San Domenico, the frescoes of a complete 
 artist, Sodoma, one of Raphael's contemporaries, and 
 the j&rst master of the country. His scourged Christ is 
 a superb nude torso, animated and suffering like an 
 antique gladiator; his "St. Catherine in Ecstasy," his 
 two male saints and female saint between them under 
 an open portico, all his paintings, force the others back 
 at once into the indeterminate region of incomplete, 
 defective beings incapable of life. Once more why, 
 having discovered painting, did men pass a hundred 
 and fifty years with closed eyes without seeing the 
 body? We must see Florence and Pisa. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FROM FLORENCE TO PISA.— SCENERY.— PISAN ARCHITECTURE.— THE 
 DUOMO, LEANING TOWER, BAPTISTERY AND CAMPO-SANTO.— 
 PAINTINGS OF THE XIV. CENTURY.— PIETRO D'ORVIETO.— SPI- 
 NELLO SPINELLI, PIETRO LORENZETTI, AND THE ORCAGNA.— 
 RELATIONSHIP OF THE ART OF THE XIV. CENTURY TO ITS 
 SOCIETY.— WHY ARTISTIC DEVELOPMENT REMAINS STATIONARY. 
 
 Flobence, April 10. — I passed my first clay in the 
 Uffizi : —but you do not require me to dwell on it now. 
 I must not dissipate my impressions ; I have already 
 had trouble enough to render them. 
 
 On the following day I, accordingly, visited Pisa 
 absorbed by the question which occupied me in quit- 
 ting Sienna. It is only such matters that fill up time 
 in travelling. One moves along wrapped up in one's 
 ideas and other matters are let go. It seems to me that 
 a man divides himself up into two parts : on the one 
 hand a lower animal, a sort of necessary mechanical 
 drudge who eats, drinks and walks for him without his 
 knowing it, settles down comfortably in inns and in 
 carriages, endures without letting him perceive it dis- 
 agTeeable, petty annoyances, the platitudes of Kfe, and 
 attends to all that pertains to his ordinary condition ; 
 on the other hand a mind that is excited and strained 
 all day by a vehement curiosity, stirred and traversed 
 by germs of ideas, discarded and revived, in order to 
 comprehend the sentiments of great men and of an- 
 cient epochs. What made them feel in this way ? Is 
 it true that they did feel in this way? So from ques- 
 tion to question, at the end of a week, one listens to 
 them and sees them face to face, forgetting the drudge, 
 who becomes awkward and does his duty negligently. 
 It is all the same to me — and to you : — but I am talking 
 at random, — we are going to Pisa. 
 
 A Tuscan landscape, agreeable and noble. The 
 
56 PEKUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 grain, in blade, glows with freshness ; above it run files 
 of elms, loaded with vines, bordering the channels by 
 which they are irrigated. The country is an orchard 
 fertilized by artificial streams. The waters flow co- 
 piously fi'om the mountains and wind about limpid and 
 blue in their too capacious bed of boulders. Signs of 
 prosperity everywhere. The mountain slopes are dot- 
 ted with thousands of white spots, so many villas and 
 summer resorts, each with its bouquet of chestnut, 
 olive and pine trees. Marks of taste and of comfort 
 are evident in those that we observe in passing ; the 
 farm-houses have a portico on the ground-floor, or on 
 the first story, wherein to enjoy the evening breeze. 
 All is productive ; cultivation extends far up the moun- 
 tain and is continued here and there by the primitive 
 forest. Man has not reduced the earth to a fleshless 
 skeleton ; he has preserved, or renewed its vestment of 
 verdure. As the train recedes, these terraces of soil, 
 each with its own tint and culture, and farther on, the 
 pale, vapory bordering of mountains, encompass the 
 plain like a garland. The effect is not that of a grand- 
 iose beauty, but harmonious and regulated. 
 
 For the first time in Italy I see a true river in a true 
 plain ; the Arno, yellow and turbulent, rolls along be- 
 tween two long ranges of dingy houses. A mournful, 
 neglected, meagrely populated, lifeless city, calling to 
 mind one of our towns in decay, or set aside by a wan- 
 dering civilization, like Aix, Poitiers or Eennes ; — such 
 is Pisa. 
 
 There are two Pisas : one ia which people have 
 lapsed uito ennui, and live from hand to mouth since the 
 decadence, which is in fact the entire city, except a re- 
 mote corner ; the other is this corner, a marble sepul- 
 chre where the Duomo, Baptistery, Leaning Tower and 
 Campo-Santo silently repose Hke beautiful dead beings. 
 This is the genuine Pisa, and in these relics of a departed 
 life, one beholds a world. 
 
PISA. 57 
 
 A renaissance before the renaissance, a second bud- 
 ding almost antique of antique civilization, a preco- 
 cious and complete sentiment of healthy, joyous beauty, 
 a primrose after six centuries of snow — such are the 
 ideas and the terms that rush through the mind. All 
 is marble, and white marble, its immaculate brightness 
 glowing in the azure. Everywhere appear grand, solid 
 forms, the cupola, the full wall, balanced stories, the 
 firmly-planted round or square mass ; but over these 
 forms, revived from the antique, like delicate foliage re- 
 freshing an old tree-trunk, is diffused an invention of 
 their own in the shape of a covering of delicate columns 
 supporting arcades that render the originality and 
 grace of this architecture, thus renovated, indescribable. 
 
 The most difficult thing in the arts is to discover a 
 type of architecture. The Greeks and the middle ages 
 produced one complete ; Imperial Eome and the six- 
 teenth and seventeenth centuries produced one half- 
 complete. In order to find other types we are obliged 
 to abandon Europe and European history and consider 
 those of Egypt, Persia, India or China. Usually they 
 testify to a completed civilization, to a profound trans- 
 formation of all instincts and of all customs. Really, 
 to change anj conception of a thing so general as form, 
 what a change must be effected in the human brain ! 
 Revolutions in painting and in literature have been 
 much more frequent, much easier and much less sig- 
 nificant. Figures traced on canvas, and characters 
 portrayed in books will change five or six times with a 
 people before its architecture can be changed. The 
 mass to be moved is too great, and in the eleventh 
 century, in the times of our first Capet kings, Pisa 
 moves it without effort. 
 
 There was a dawn then, as in Greece in the sixth 
 century before Christ. Everything then burst forth 
 radiantly like light at the first hour. " The Pisans," 
 said Yasari, " being at the apex of their grandeur and 
 
 3* 
 
58 PEKUGIA AND ASSIST. 
 
 of their progress, being lords of Sardinia, Corsica and 
 the island of Elba, and their city being filled with 
 great and powerful citizens, brought from the most dis- 
 tant places trophies and great spoil." At Byzantium, 
 in the Orient, in ancient cities still filled with the 
 ruins of Greek elegance and of Roman magnificence, 
 among Jews and Arabs their visitors and their cus- 
 tomers, in contact with foreign ideas, this young com- 
 munity started up and elaborated its own conceptions as 
 formerly the Greek cities in contact with Phenicia, 
 Carthage, the Lydians and the Egyptians. In 1083 in 
 order to honor the Yirgin, who had given them a vic- 
 tory over the Saracens of Sardignia, they laid the foun- 
 dations of their Duomo. 
 
 This edifice is almost a Eoman basilica, that is to 
 say a temple surmounted by another temple, or, if you 
 prefer it, a house having a gable for its facade which 
 gable is cut off at the peak to support another house 
 of smaller dimensions. Five stories of columns entirely 
 cover the fa9ade with their superposed porticoes. Two 
 by two they stand coupled together to support small 
 arcades ; all these pretty shapes of white marble under 
 their dark arcades form an aerial population of the 
 utmost grace and novelty. Nowhere here are we con- 
 scious of the dolorous reverie of the mediaeval north ; it 
 is the fete of a young nation which is awakening, and, in 
 the gladness of its recent prosperity, honoring its gods. 
 It has collected capitals, ornaments, entire columns 
 obtained on the distant shores to which its wars and 
 its commerce have led it, and these ancient fragments 
 enter into its work without incongruity ; for it is 
 instinctively cast in the ancient mould, and only 
 developed with a tinge of fancy on the side of 
 finesse and the pleasing. Every antique form reap- 
 pears, but reshaped in the same sense by a fresh and 
 original impulse. The outer columns of the Greek 
 
THE CATHEDKAL OF PISA. 
 
 59 
 
 temple are reduced, multiplied and uplifted in tlie air, 
 and, from a support have become an ornament. The 
 Eoman or Byzantine dome is elongated and its natural 
 heaviness diminished under a crown of slender columns 
 with a mitre ornament, which girds it midway with its 
 delicate promenade. On the two sides of the great 
 door two Corinthian columns are enveloped with luxu- 
 rious foliage, calyxes and twining or blooming acan- 
 thus ; and from the threshold we see the church with 
 its files of intersecting columns, its alternate courses of 
 black and white marble and its multitude of slender 
 and brilliant forms, rising upward like an altar of can- 
 delabra. A new spirit appears here, a more delicate 
 sensibility ; it is not excessive and disordered as in the 
 north, and yet it is not satisfied with the grave sim- 
 plicity, the robust nudity of antique architecture. It 
 is the daughter of a pagan mother, healthy and gay, 
 but more womanly than its mother. 
 
 She is not yet an adult, sure in all her steps, — she is 
 somewhat awkward. The lateral facades on the exte- 
 rior are monotonous ; the cupola within is a reversed 
 funnel of a peculiar and disagreeable form. The 
 junction of the two arms of the cross is unsatisfactory 
 and so many modernized chapels dispel the charm due 
 to purity, as at Sienna. At the second glance however 
 all this is forgotten, and we again regard it as a com- 
 plete whole. Four rows of corinthian columns, sur- 
 mounted with arcades, divide the church into five naves, 
 and form a forest. A second passage, as richly crowded, 
 traverses the former crosswise, and, above the beautiful 
 grove, files of still smaller columns prolong and inter- 
 sect each other in order to uphold in the air the pro- 
 longation and intersection of the quadruple gallery. 
 The ceiling is flat ; the windows are small, and for the 
 most part, without sashes ; they allow the walls to re- 
 tain the grandeur of their mass and the solidity of their 
 
60 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 — - V - 
 
 position 5^ and among these long, straight and simple 
 lines, in this natural light, the innumerable shafts glow 
 with the serenity of an antique temple. *^ . 
 
 It is not, however, wholly an antique temple, and 
 hence its pecuHar charm : ia the rear of the choir a 
 grand figure of Christ in a golden robe, and the Yii'gin, 
 and another saint, smaller in size, occupy the entire 
 concave of the absis."^ His face is serene and sad ; on 
 this golden background, in the paleness of the dim 
 light, he looks hke a vision. Countless paintings and 
 structures of the middle ages assuredly correspond to 
 ecstatic yearnings. — Other fi'agments indicate the de- 
 cadence and utter barbarism out of which they sprung. 
 One of the ancient bronze doors still remains covered 
 with rude and horrible bronze bas-reliefs. Behold what 
 the descendants of the statuaries preserved of antique 
 tradition, what the human mind had become in the 
 chaos of the tenth century, at the time of the Hungarian 
 invasions of Marozzia and of Theodora : sad, mournful, 
 dwarfed, dislocated and mechanical figures, God the 
 Father and six angels, three on one side and three on 
 the other, all leaning at the same angle like the figures 
 scribbled by children ; the twelve apostles ranged in 
 file, six in fi'ont and six in the intermediate spaces, are 
 Hke those round ruigs with holes in them for eyes and 
 long appendages for arms which boys scrawl on the 
 covers of their copy-books. On the other hand, the 
 entrance doors, sculptured by John of Bologna (1602), 
 are full of life : leaves of the rose, the vine, the medlar, 
 the orange and the laurel, with their berries, fruits and 
 flowers, amongst biixls and animals, twine around and 
 make frames for energetic and spirited figures and 
 groups of an imposing aspect. This abundance of ac- 
 curate living forms is peculiar to the sixteenth century : 
 it discovered natiu^e the same time as it discovered 
 
 * By Jacopo Turrita, the restorer of mosaic art. 
 
THE BAPTISTERY AND LEANING TOWER. 
 
 Gl 
 
 man. BetweSH these two doors occurs tlie labor of five 
 centimes. 
 
 Nothing more can be added in relation to the Bap- 
 tistery or the Leaning Tower ; the same ideas prevail 
 in these, the same taste, the same style. The former is 
 a simple, isolated dome, the latter a cylinder, and each 
 has an outward dress of small columns. And yet each 
 has its own distinct and expressive physiognomy ; but 
 description and writing consume too much time, and 
 too many technical terms are requisite to define their 
 differences. I note, simply, the inclination of the 
 Tower. Some suppose that, when half constructed, 
 the tower sank in the earth on one side, and that the 
 architects continued on ; seeing that they did continue 
 this deflection was only a partial obstacle to them. In 
 any event, there are other leaning towers in Italy, at 
 Bologna, for example ; voluntarily or involuntarily this 
 feeling for oddness, this love of paradox, this yielding 
 to fancy, is one of the characteristics of the middle 
 ages. 
 
 In the centre of the Baptistery stands a superb font 
 with eight panels ; each panel is incrusted with a 
 rich complicated flower in full bloom, and each flower 
 is different. Around it a circle of large corinthian 
 columns supports round-arch arcades ; most of them 
 are antique and are ornamented with antique bas- 
 reliefs : Meleager with his barking dogs, and the nude 
 torsos of his companions hi attendance on christian 
 mysteries. On the left stands a pulpit similar to that 
 of Sienna, the first work of Nicholas of Pisa (1260), a 
 simple marble coffer supported by marble columns and 
 covered with sculptures. The sentiment of force and 
 of antique nudity comes out here in striking features. 
 The sculptor comprehended the postures and torsions 
 of bodies. His figures, somewhat massive, are grand 
 and simple ; he fi'equently reproduces the tunics and 
 folds of the Roman costume ; one of his nude person- 
 
63 PERUGIA AND ASSISI. 
 
 ages, a sort of Hercules bearing a young lion on liis 
 shoulders, has the broad breast and muscular tension 
 which the sculptors of the sixteenth century admired. 
 What a change in human civilization, what an accelera- 
 tion of it, had these restorers of ancient beauty, these 
 young republics of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, 
 these precocious creators of modern thought been left 
 to themselves like the ancient Greeks? had they fol- 
 lowed their natural bent, had mystic tradition not 
 intervened to limit and divert their efforts, had laic 
 genius developed amongst them as formerly in Greece 
 amidst liberal, rude and healthy institutions, and not, as 
 two centuries later, in the midst of the servitude and 
 corruptions of the decadence ? 
 
 The last of these edifices, the Campo-Santo, is a 
 cemetery, the soil of which, brought from Palestine, is 
 holy ground. Four high walls of polished marble sur- 
 round it with their white and crowded panels. Inside, 
 a square gallery forms a promenade opening into the 
 court through arcades trellised with ogive windows. 
 It is filled with funereal monuments, busts, inscriptions 
 and statues of every form and of every age. Nothing 
 could be simpler and nobler. A framework of dark 
 wood supports the arch overhead, and the crest of the 
 roof cuts sharp against the crystal sky. At the angles 
 are four rustling cypress trees, tranquilly swayed by 
 the breeze. Grass is growing in the court with a wild 
 freshness and luxuriance. Here and there a climbing 
 flower twined around a column, a small rosebush, or 
 a shrub glows beneath a gleam of sunshine. There is 
 no noise ; this quarter is deserted ; only now^ and then 
 is heard the voice of some promenader which rever- 
 berates as under the vault of a church. It is the 
 veritable cemetery of a free and christian city ; here, 
 before the tombs of the great, people might well 
 reflect over death and public affairs. 
 
 The entire wall of the interior is covered with 
 
THE CAMPO-SANTO. i3 
 
 frescoes ; tlie pictorial art of the fourteenth century 
 has no more complete charnel-house. The two schools 
 of Florence and Sienna here combine, and it is a 
 curious spectacle to observe their art halting between 
 two tendencies, arrested in its powerlessness like a 
 passive chrysalis no longer a worm and not jei a 
 butterfly. The ancient sentiment of the divine world 
 is enfeebled, and the fi-esh sentiment of the natural 
 world is still weak. On the right of the entrance 
 Pietro d'Orvieto has painted an enormous Christ, 
 which, except the feet and the head, almost disappears 
 under an immense disk representing the world and the 
 revolving spheres ; this is the spirit of primitive sym- 
 bolism. Alongside, in his story of the creation and of 
 the first couple, Adam and Eve are big, well-fed, 
 plump, realistic bodies, evidently copied from the nude. 
 A little farther on Cain and Abel, in their sheepskins, 
 display vulgar countenances taken from life in the 
 streets or in a fray. Feet, legs and composition 
 remain barbarian, and this incipient realism goes no 
 farther. On the other side, and with the same incon- 
 giTiities, a grand fresco by Pietro Lorenzetti repre- 
 sents ascetic life. Forty or fifty scenes are given in 
 the same picture : an anchorite reading, another in a 
 cave, another roosting in a tree, here one preaching 
 with no other clothes on than his hair, and there one 
 tempted by a woman and flogged by the devil. A few 
 large heads with gray and white beards show the rustic 
 clumsiness of ploughmen ; but the landscapes, the 
 accessories, and even most of the figures, are grotesque ; 
 the trees are feathers, and the rocks and the lions seem 
 to belong to a five-franc menagerie. Farther on Spi- 
 nello d'Arezzo has painted the story of St. Ephesus. 
 His pagans, half Eomans and half cavaliers, wear 
 armor arranged and colored according to mediaeval 
 taste. Man}^ of the attitudes in his battles are true, as, 
 for instance, a man overthrown on his face, and another 
 
64 PEKUGIA AND ASSIST. 
 
 seized by the beard. Several are figures of the day, 
 for instance a pretty page in green holding a sword, 
 and a trim yonng squire in a blue pourpoint with 
 pointed shoes and * well-drawn calves; observation and 
 composition, an attempt to impart interest and dramatic 
 variety, begin to appear. But it is only a beginning, it 
 is simply a pasteboard sketch. Relief, flexibility, 
 action, the rich vitality of firm flesh, a feehng for a 
 balanced organization and the innumerable laws which 
 maintain natural objects is still remote ; we have 
 imagery striving after, but which does not yet attain 
 to art. 
 
 Nothing more clearly illustrates this ambiguous 
 state of minds than a fresco placed near one of the 
 angles called the " Triumph of Death," by Orcagna .^ 
 At the base of a mountain a cavalcade of lords and 
 ladies arrives ; these are the contemporaries of Frois- 
 sart : they wear the hoods and ermines and the gay va- 
 riegated robes of the time, and have falcons and dogs 
 and other appurtenances such as Valentine Yisconti 
 went to find at the residence of Louis of Orleans. The 
 heads are not less real : this delicate trim chatelaine 
 on horseback, and veiled, is a true lady, pensive and 
 melancholy, of the mediaeval epoch. These gay and 
 powerful ones of the century suddenly come upon the 
 corpses of three kings iu the three degrees of corruption, 
 each iu his open grave, one swoUen, the other gnawed 
 by worms and serpents, and the other abeady exposing 
 the bones of his skeleton. They halt and tremble : 
 one of them leans over his horse's neck to obtain a 
 better view, and another stops his nostrils ; this is a 
 "morality" like those then given in the playhouses. 
 The artist aims to instruct his public, and to this effect 
 he masses around the principal group every possible 
 commentary. On the summit of the mountain are 
 
 * Deceased about 1376. 
 
OECAGNAS FRESCOES. 
 
 65 
 
 monks in tlieir hermitages, one reading and another 
 milking a fawn, and, in their midst, are beasts of the 
 desert, a weasel and a crane. " You good people who 
 gaze on this, behold the Christian, contemplative life, 
 the holy living disdained by the mighty of the earth ! " 
 But death is present who restores the equilibrium : he is 
 advancing in the shape of an old graybeard with a 
 scythe in his hand in order to cut down the gay, the 
 voluptuous, the young lords and ladies, fat and 
 frizzled, who are diverting themselves in a grove. 
 "With a sort of cruel irony he is mowing down those 
 who fear him, and is avoiding those who implore him ; 
 a troop of the maimed, of cripples, of the blind, of 
 beggars vainly summon him; his scythe is not for 
 them. Such is the way of this frail lug-ubrious, 
 miserable world ; and the end to which it is tending is 
 more lugubrious still. This is universal destruction, a 
 yawning abyss into which all, each in turn, are to be 
 confusedly ingulphed. Queens, kings, popes and 
 archbishops with their ministers and their crowns lie 
 in heaps, and tlieir souls, in the shape of nude infants, 
 issue fi'om their bodies to take their place in the terri- 
 ble eternity. Some are welcomed by angels, but the 
 greater number are seized by demons, hideous and base 
 figures, with bodies of goats and toads, and with bats' 
 ears and the jaws and claws of cats — a grotesque pack 
 gambolling and capering around their quarry : a singu- 
 lar commingling of dramatic passion, morbid philos- 
 oph}^, accurate observation, awkward triviality and 
 picturesque impotence. 
 
 The fresco next to this, "The Last Judgment," is 
 similar. Many of the faces bear an expression of de- 
 spair, and of extraordinary stupor, — for instance, an 
 angel in the centre, crouched down, and, his eyes 
 opened wide and rigid with horror, gazing on the 
 eternal judgments ; another, a hairy recluse thrown vio- 
 lently backward, with outstretched arms appealing to 
 
66 
 
 PEEUGIA AND ASSIST. 
 
 Christ the mediator, and a condemned woman clinging 
 convulsively to another. All these personages, how- 
 ever, are simply figures cut out of paper ; the forms 
 are arranged mechanically, in rows like onions, five 
 stories high, the souls issuing from square holes like 
 trap-doors in a theatre stage ; the art is as inadequate 
 as the sentiment is profound, and, so soon as the senti- 
 ment begins to decline this inadequacy becomes 
 platitude and barbarism. 
 
 We realize this right alongside in the " Hell" of Ber- 
 nardo Orcagna, which completes the work of his brother 
 Andrea. It is a grave in compartments, arranged so 
 as to frighten little children. In the centre, a huge 
 gTeen Satan of glowing metal with a ram's head is 
 roasting souls in a furnace inside of himself, from which 
 they are seen to issue through the fissures. Around him 
 in a confused medley of flames and serpents, appear naked 
 dolls in the hands of hairy little devils who are flaying, 
 disembowelling and dismembering them, tearing out 
 their tongues and spitting them like chickens, the whole 
 forming a great kitchen stew. — A poetic world from 
 which all poetry is abstracted, a sublime tragedy con- 
 verted into a parade of executioners and a workshop 
 of torture is what this talentless Dante has depicted 
 on these walls. The great era of Christian faith ter- 
 minated with the scandals of the Avignon popes and 
 the convulsions of that schism ; scholasticism dies out 
 and Petrarch ridicules it. A few paroxysms of morbid 
 fervor, — the flagellators of France, the white penitents 
 of Italy, the visions of Saint Catherine and the au- 
 thority of St. Bernard at Sienna, and later the evan- 
 gelical dictatorship of Savonarola at Florence, — indi- 
 cate at most the rare and violent palpitations of a de- 
 parting life. The heretics of Germany and England 
 undermine the church ; the Averrhoeists of Italy un- 
 dermine religion, while, on all sides, the mysticism 
 which had supported religion and ennobled the church 
 
obcagna's frescoes. 67 
 
 becomes decrepit and falls. Petrarch, the last of the 
 Platonic worshippers, views his sonnets as amusements, 
 devoting himself to reviving antiquity, to discovering 
 manuscripts, and to writing latin verses and prose, and 
 with him we see commencing that long succession of 
 humanists who are about to introduce pagan culture 
 into Italy. Popular Hterature, meanwhile, changes its 
 tone ; practical historians, amusing story-tellers in 
 prose, — the Yillani, the Sacchetti, the Pecoroni and the 
 Boccaccios — substitute merry or ordinary converse for 
 a sublime and ^dsionary poesy. The serious declines, 
 for people are disposed to be gay ; Boccaccio's poesy 
 consists of gallant and descriptive novels of adventure, 
 and around him, in France and in England, is displayed 
 in poets and chroniclers, an interminable string of 
 chivalric cavalcades, of princely sumptuousness and of 
 amatory discourses. There is no longer any grand, 
 austere idea to excite the enthusiasm of men. In the 
 midst of the wars and the disastrous dislocations which 
 counter-check or dismantle governments those who 
 look beyond seigneurial pomp and revelry see nothing 
 with Avhich to control man but Fortune, " a monstrous 
 image with a cruel and terrible face, and a hundred 
 arms, some elevating men to the high places of worldly 
 honor, and others rudely grasping them in order to hurl 
 them to the ground ;" alongside of her is blind Death 
 " who grinds all into dust, kings and cavaliers, emperors 
 and popes, many lords who live for pleasure and lovely 
 ladies and mistresses of knights who cry aloud and 
 sink in anguish." * These expressions of a contempo- 
 rary seem to describe the fresco of Orcagna. The 
 same impression, indeed, is there found stamped on all 
 hearts ; a bitter sentiment of human instability and 
 misery, an ironical view of passing existence and of 
 worldly pleasure, the Liberation of laic opinion freed at 
 
 * Piers Plowman. 
 
68 PEEUGLl AND ASSISI. 
 
 last from mystic illusion, the intemperance of long- 
 bridled senses in quest of enjo^^ment — do we find aught 
 else in Boccaccio ? He places death side by side with 
 voluptuousness, the atrocious details of the plague 
 side by side with the frolics of the alcove. Such is 
 truly the spirit of the time ; and here I imagine we at 
 last arrive at the cause which for so long a time re- 
 tarded the progress of painting in Italy. If, during a 
 hundred and fifty years, painting, like literature, re- 
 mained passive after the vigorous advance of its early 
 progress, it is owing to the public mind having re- 
 mained inactive likewise. Mystic sentiment becoming 
 less fervid it was no longer adequately sustained in 
 order to express the pure mystic life. Pagan senti- 
 ment being only in embryo it was not yet far enough 
 advanced to portray the broad pagan life. It was 
 abandoning its first road and stiU remained at the en- 
 trance of the second. It was abandoning ideal faces, 
 innocent or ravished physiognomies, the glorious 
 possessions of incorporeal souls ranged like visions 
 against the splendor of divine light. It descended to 
 the earth, delineating portraits, contemporary costume, 
 interesting scenes, and expressed common or dramatic 
 sentiments. It no longer addressed monks but laymen. 
 These laymen however still had one foot in the clois- 
 ter, and many long j^ears were necessary before their 
 admiration and sympathies, clinging to the super- 
 natural world, could rally in combined force and effort 
 around the natural world. It was necessary that the 
 terrestrial Hfe should gradually ennoble itself in their 
 own eyes even to appearing to them to be the only 
 true and important one. It was necessary that a 
 universal and insensible transformation should in- 
 terest them in the laws and actual proportions of things, 
 in the anatomical structure of the body, in the vitality 
 of naked limbs, in the expansion of animal joyousness 
 and in the triumph of virile energies. Then only 
 
IMPRESSIVE MONUMENTS. "» 
 
 could tliey comprehend, suggest and demand accurate 
 perspective, substantial modelling, brilliant and melting 
 color, bold and harmonious form, all parts of complete 
 painting, and that glorification of physical beauty which 
 demands sympathetic spirits in order that it may at- 
 tain to perfection and find its echo. 
 
 They devoted a century and a half to this great step, 
 and painting, like a shadow accompanying its body, 
 faithfully repeated the uncertainties of their advance in 
 the slowness of its progress. In the middle of the 
 fifteenth century Parro Spinelli and Lorenzo Bicci 
 faithfully copy the grotesque style ; Fra Angelico, nur- 
 tured in the cloister like a rare flower in a conservatory, 
 still succeeds in the purest of mystic visions ; even with 
 his pupil Gozzoli, who has filled up the whole side of a 
 wall here with his frescoes, w^e detect, as in the confluence 
 of two ages, the last flow of the christian tide beneath 
 the fulness o£ the pagan flood. During these two 
 hundred j^ears innumerable paintings are produced to 
 clothe the nudity of churches and monasteries ; this 
 period having elapsed they are regarded with indif- 
 ference ; they fall off along with the plaster, the masons 
 scratch them away, they disappear beneath whitewash, 
 the restorers make them over afresh. The remains we 
 now have of them are fragments, and only in our day 
 have interest and attention been again directed to 
 them ; antiquarians have dug down to the geological 
 stratum which bore them and we now see in them the 
 remains of an imperfect flora extinguished by the inva- 
 sion of a more vigorous vegetation. — The eyes, again 
 turning upward, rest on the four structures of ancient 
 Pisa, solitary on a spot where the grass grows, and on 
 the pallid lustre of the marbles profiled against the di- 
 vine azure. What ruins, and what a cemetery is 
 history! "What human pulsations of which no other 
 trace is left but a form imprinted on a fragment of 
 stone ! What indifference in the smile of the placid 
 
70 PERUGLi AND ASSISI. 
 
 firmament, and what cruel beauty in that luminous cu- 
 pola stretched, in turn, like a common funereal dais 
 over the generations that have fallen ! We read similar 
 ideas in books, and, in the pride of youth, we have con- 
 sidered them as rhetoric ; but when man has lived the 
 half of his career, and, turning in upon himself, he 
 reckons up how many of his ambitions he has subdued, 
 how much he has wTung out of his hopes, and all the 
 dead that lie buried in his heart, the sternness and 
 magnificence of nature appear to him as one, and the 
 heavy sobbing of inward grief forces him to recognize 
 a higher lamentation, that of the human tragedy which, 
 century after century, has buried so many combatants 
 in one common grave. He stops, feeling on his head 
 as upon that of those gone before, the hand of inexorable 
 powers, and he comprehends his destiny. This hu- 
 manity, of which he is a member, is figured in the 
 Niobe at Florence. Around her, her sons and her 
 daughters, all those she loves, fall incessantly under 
 the arrows of invisible archers. One of them is cast 
 down on his back and his breast, transpierced, is 
 throbbing ; another, still living, stretches his powerless 
 hands up to the celestial murderers ; the youngest con- 
 ceals his head under his mother's robe. She, mean- 
 while, stern and fixed stands hopeless, her eyes raised 
 to heaven, contemplating with admiration and horror 
 the dazzling and deadly nimbus, the outstretched arms, 
 the merciless arrows and the implacable serenity of the 
 gods. 
 
BOOK 11. 
 
 FLOEENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 . STREET SCENES.— FLOEENTINE CHAEACTER. 
 
 A CITY complete in itself, having its own arts and 
 edifices, lively and not too crowded, a capital and not 
 too large, beautiful and gay — such is the first idea of 
 Florence. 
 
 One wanders along carelessly over the large slabs 
 with which the streets are paved. From the Palazzo 
 Strozzi to the Piazza Santa Trinita there is a humming 
 crowd constantly renewing itself. In hundreds of 
 places we see the constantly recurring signs of an 
 agreeable and intellectual life : cafes almost brilliant, 
 print-shops, alabaster p'letra dura and mosaic establish- 
 ments, bookstores, an elegant reading-room and a 
 dozen theatres. Of course the ancient city of the 
 fifteenth century still exists and constitutes the body 
 of the city; but it is not mouldy as at Sienna, con- 
 signed to one corner as at Pisa, befouled as in Rome, en- 
 veloped in mediaeval cobwebs or plastered with modern 
 life as if with a parasite incrustation. The past is here 
 reconciled with the present ; the refined vanity of the 
 monarchy is perpetuated by the refined invention of 
 the republic ; the paternal government of the German 
 grand-dukes is perpetuated by the pompous government 
 of the Italian grand-dukes. At the close of the last 
 and the beginning of this century Florence formed a 
 Httle oasis in Italy, and was called gli felicissimi staii. 
 People built as formerly, held festivals and conversed 
 together ; the social spii'it had not perished as else- 
 where under a rude despotic hand or through the 
 
72 
 
 FLOKENCE. 
 
 respectable inertia of ecclesiastical rigor. The Floren- 
 tine, as formerly the Athenian under the Caesars, 
 remained a critic and a wit, proud of his good taste, 
 his sonnets, his academies, of the language which gave 
 law to Italy, and of his undisputed judgments in 
 matters of literature and the fine arts. There are 
 races so refined that they cannot wholly degenerate ; 
 mind is an integrant force with them ; they may 
 become corrupt but never be destroyed ; they may be 
 converted into dilletanti and sophists but not into 
 mutes and fools. It is then, indeed, that their under- 
 lying nature appears ; we recognize that with them, as 
 with the Greeks of the Lower Empire, intelligence 
 constitutes character, since it persists after this has 
 deteriorated. Already under the first Medicis the 
 keenest enjoyment is that of the intellect, and the 
 leading mental characteristics are gaiety and subtlety. 
 Gravity subsides ; like the Athenians in the time of 
 Demosthenes the Florentines care only for amusement, 
 and, like Demosthenes, their leaders admonish them. 
 " Your life," says Savonarola, " is passed in bed, in 
 gossiping, in promenading, in orgies, and in debauch- 
 ery." And Bruto the historian adds that they infuse 
 "politeness into slander and gossip, and sociability 
 into criminal complaisance ;" he reproaches them for 
 doing " everything languidly, effeminately, irregularly, 
 and of accepting indolence and baseness as the rule of 
 their life." These are severe expressions. All the mor- 
 alists use the same language, and elevate their voices 
 in order to make themselves heard. It is clear, how- 
 ever, that, toward the middle of the fifteenth century, 
 the trained and cultivated senses, expert in all matters 
 of pleasure, ostentation and emotion, are sovereign in 
 Florence. We realize this in their art. Their renais- 
 sance has in it nothing of the austere or tragic. Only 
 old palaces built of enormous blocks bristle with 
 knotty bosses grated windows and obscure angles, 
 
STREET VIEWS. '^3 
 
 indicating the insecurity of feudal life and the assaults 
 they have undergone. Everywhere else a taste for 
 elegant and joyous beauty declares itself. The princi- 
 pal buildings are covered with marble from top to 
 bottom. Loggia, open to air and sunshine, rest on 
 Corinthian columns. We see that architecture eman- 
 cipated itself immediately from the gothic, abstracting 
 from it only one point of originality and of fancy, and 
 that her natural tendency from the first led her to the 
 light and simple forms of pagan antiquity. You walk 
 on and you observe the apse of a church peopled with 
 intelligent and expressive statues ; a solid wall where 
 the pretty Italian arcade is inlaid and developed into a 
 border ; a file of slender columns whose tops expand in 
 order to support the roof of a promenade, and, termi- 
 nating a street, a panel of green hill, or some blue 
 mountain top. I have just passed an hour on the 
 square of the " Annunziata," seated on a flight of 
 steps. Opposite to me is a church, and on either side 
 of this, a convent, all three with a peristyle of light 
 haK-ionic, half-corinthian columns, terminating in ar- 
 cades. Overhead are brown roofs of old tile intersect- 
 ing the pure blue of the sky, and, at the end of a street, 
 stretching away in the warm shadow, the eye is arrested 
 by a round mountain. Within this frame, so natural 
 and so noble, is a market ; stalls protected by white 
 awnings contain rolls of drygoods ; countless women 
 in violet shawls and straw hats come and go and are 
 buying and chatting ; there are scarcely any beggars or 
 ragged people ; the eyes are not saddened by specta- 
 cles of misery and savage brutality ; the people seem 
 to be at their ease and active without being excited. 
 From the middle of this variegated crowd and these 
 open airy stalls rises an equestrian statue, and near 
 this, a fountain empties its waters into a basin of 
 bronze. These contrasts are similar to those of Eome ; 
 but instead of clashing they harmonize. The beautiful 
 
 *4, 
 
"^4 FLOEENCE. 
 
 is as original but it inclines to tlie pleasing and harmo- 
 nious and not toward disproportion and enormity. 
 You turn back. A beautiful stream of clear water, 
 spotted here and {here with white sandbanks, flows by 
 the side of a magnificent quay. Houses seeming to be 
 palaces, modern and yet monumental, form a bordering 
 to it. In the distance you observe trees donning 
 their spring verdure, a soft and pleasing landscape like 
 those of temperate climes ; beyond, rounded summits 
 and hillsides, and still farther on, an amphitheatre of 
 barren rocks. Florence lies in a mountain basin like a 
 statuette in the middle of a vast fountain, and its stone 
 lacework becomes silvery under the bright lustre of the 
 evening reflections. You follow the course of the river 
 and reach the Cascine. Fresh green and the delicate 
 tintings of distant poplars undulate with charming 
 sweetness against the blue mountains. Tall trees and 
 dense evergreen hedges protect the promenader from 
 the north wind. It is so pleasant, on the approach of 
 spring, to feel one's self stirred by the fresh warm sun- 
 shine ! The azure of the sky glows magnificently 
 between the budding branches of the beeches, on the 
 pale verdure of the ilex, and on the blue-tinted needles 
 of the pine. Everywhere between gray trunks animated 
 wdth sap are blooming tufts of shrubbery that have 
 not succumbed to winter's sleep, and fresh blossoms, 
 combining with their youthful vivacity, to fill the ave- 
 nues with color and fragrance. The light laurel pro- 
 files its grave tops against the river-bank, as in a picture, 
 while the broad Arno tranquilly expands its ruddy 
 gleaming waves in sunset glow. 
 
 You leave the city and ascend an eminence in order 
 to embrace it and its valley in one view in the rounded 
 vase in which it lies : nothing could be more charming ! 
 Comfort and prosperity are apparent on all sides. 
 Thousands of country-houses dot the surface with their 
 white spots, rising above each other from slope to slope 
 
SAN MINIATO. 75 
 
 even to the mountain heights. On every declivity the 
 tops of the oKve-trees cluster together like sober 
 grazing flocks. The soil is supported by walls and 
 forms terraces. Man's intelligent hand converts all to 
 profit and at the same time into beauty. The soil, 
 thus disposed, assumes an architectural shape ; 
 gardens are grouped together in stories amongst 
 balustrades, statues and fountains. There are no great 
 forests, there is no luxuriance of abundant vegetation ; 
 it is only northern eyes that need to feast themselves 
 on the universal softness and freshness of vegetal growth ; 
 the grouping of stones suffices for the Italians, and the 
 neighboring mountain furnishes them, according to 
 fanc}^, with beautiful white or bluish blocks, sober and 
 refined in tone. They arrange them nobly in symmet- 
 rical lines ; the marble fronts of the houses glisten in 
 the transparent atmosphere, accompanied with a few 
 grand trees always green. One can here enjoy sun- 
 shine in winter and shade in summer, while the eye 
 idly wanders over the surrounding landscape. 
 
 Afar, in the distance, a gateway is seen, a campanile 
 and a church. This is San Miniato, situated on a hill 
 and developing its fagade of variegated marbles. This is 
 one of the oldest churches in Florence, belonging to the 
 eleventh century. On entering it you find an almost 
 latin basilica, capitals almost grecian, and light 
 polished shafts bearing round arcades. The crypt is 
 similar. There is nothing lugubrious about it or over- 
 burdened ; ever the upspringing column terminating in 
 harmonious curves. Florentine architecture from the 
 very first derives or resumes the antique tradition of 
 Kght and solid forms. Early historians call Florence 
 " the noble city, the daughter of Kome." It seems as 
 if the melancholy spirit of the middle ages had only 
 glided over it. She is an elegant pagan, who, as soon 
 as she first thought, declared herself, at first timidly 
 and afterward openly, elegant and pagan. 
 
CHAPTEE II 
 
 THEATEES.— LITERATURE.— POLITICS.— EST WHAT RESPECT THE ITAL- 
 IAN DIFFERS FROM THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.— THE PEASANT 
 IN RELATION TO THE NOBLE.— THE LAYMAN IN RELATION TO 
 THE PRIEST. 
 
 Visits and Eyenings at the Theatres. — There are 
 eight or ten theatres, which shows great fondness for 
 amusement. They are convenient and well ventilated ; 
 a wide passage surrounds the parquette and the orches- 
 tra ; the audience is not stifled as at Paris ; several of 
 the houses are handsome, w^ell decorated and simple : 
 good taste seems to be natural in this country. In 
 other respects it is different; seats are at such low 
 rates that the managers have difficulty in making both 
 ends meet, and as to the scenery, supernumeraries and 
 the mechanical department they manage as they best 
 can ; for instance, at the Opera, the figurantes get from 
 two hundred and fifty to three hundred francs for the 
 season, which lasts two months and a half ; they pro- 
 vide themselves with shoes and stockings, the rest 
 being given to them ; most of them are grisettes. In 
 addition to this the figurants and figurantes are rather 
 unmanageable. If a fine is imposed on them for being 
 late or for any other cause they leave the manager in 
 the lurch. Their service in the theatre is simply so 
 much extra ; they obtain a living elsewhere ; this or 
 that journeyman mason, a druid or musketeer in the 
 evening, comes to the rehearsal in his working panta- 
 loons, his knees still plastered with lime. A large cap- 
 ital, and lavish expenditure of money are necessary to 
 lubricate the wheels of a modern theatre : they occa- 
 sionally creak and get out of order, as is sometimes 
 seen at the performances. Centralization and a com- 
 
LITEEATURE. 77 
 
 plete national life are likewise necessary in order to 
 supply dramatic ideas ; here tliey translate our pieces. 
 I have just heard " Faust," the prima-donna of which 
 is a French lady. At the Nicolini theatre the " Mont- 
 joie" of Octave Feuillet is performed, and, to make it 
 more intelligible, it is entitled Montjoie o V Egoista. On 
 another day we have Geloisa, which is " Othello " ar- 
 ranged as a domestic melodrama ; — it is impossible to 
 remain, — I leave at the third act. A few novels are 
 produced like Un j^'^^ode d' Italia and Pasquale Paoli, 
 great historical machines in the style of Walter Scott, 
 written in declamatory language and with frequent al- 
 lusions to the present time. One of my friends, a cul- 
 tivated person, admits that the literature of the day in 
 Italy is bad ; politics absorb all the sap of the tree, 
 other branches proving barren. In a historical line 
 there are only monographs. Writers resemble provin- 
 cialists thirty years behind the capital on account of 
 their remoteness from it ; a good deal of time is requi- 
 site to acclimate a clear concise style, based on facts 
 and free of exaggerations. They have not even a fixed 
 language ; all the Italians born outside of Tuscany 
 are obliged, like Alfieri, to resort to it in order to 
 purify their dialect. Besides this, Tuscans and Italians, 
 are all expected to avoid French turns of expression, 
 so contrary to the genius of their language, to painfully 
 unlearn them, and purge their memories of them. 
 Now, as France, for a hundred and fifty years, has 
 furnished Italy with books and ideas you may judge of 
 the difficulty of doing so. In this particular, many 
 writers fall into classic pedantry and superstitions ; 
 they nourish themselves on the standard authors of the 
 sixteenth century, and, as purists, go farther back, to 
 the fourteenth ; — but how express modern ideas in the 
 language of Froissart, or even in that of Amyot ? 
 Hence they are constrained to interlard their antique 
 style with contemporary terms ; these incongruities 
 
78 FLORENCE. 
 
 torment them ; they can only walk with shackled feet, 
 embarrassed by souvenirs of authorized forms and of a 
 precise vocabulary. A writer confessed to me that this 
 obligation put his mind to the rack. This abortive re- 
 sult is, again, an effect of the past ; its causes are at 
 once perceptible, namely, on the one hand, the inter- 
 ruption of hterary traditions after the seventeenth 
 century, in the universal decadence of studies and of 
 intellects, and, on the other, the want of centralization 
 and a capital essential for the suppression of dialects. 
 The history of all Italy is derived from one circum- 
 stance : she could not unite under a moderate or semi- 
 enlightened monarchy in the sixteenth century at the 
 same time as her neighbors. 
 
 To make amends politics are now in full blast ; one 
 might compare it to a field suffering with a long 
 drought, reinvigorated by a sudden shower. You see 
 nothing but political caricatures of Victor Emmanuel, 
 Napoleon and the Pope. They are coarse in concep- 
 tion and in execution : the Pope is a skeleton or a rope- 
 dancer; death, playing at bowls, is knocking him 
 and the cardinals down. They are without wit or 
 finesse ; the aim is to express the idea forcibly, and to 
 make a sensational impression. In Hke manner their 
 journals, almost all penny-papers, talk loud and high 
 rather than justly. They seem like people who, after 
 a certain time, are released from their fetters and ges- 
 ticulate vigorously and strike out in the air to stretch 
 their limbs. Some, meanwhile, la Pace, and the Milan 
 Gazette, reason closely, appreciate differences, refuse to 
 be considered for De Maistre or for Voltaire, laud 
 Paolo Sarpi, Gioberti and Eosmini, and strive to re- 
 vive their Italian traditions. People so spiritual and 
 so nobly endowed will finally hit upon some moderate 
 tone and a medium course of things. In the mean time 
 they are proud of their free press and ridicule ours. 
 To tell the truth we, on this point, make a sad figure 
 
THE FRENCH PEESS. 79 
 
 abroad ; after reading in a cafe the " Times," " Gali- 
 gnani," the " Koelnische or " Allgemeine Zeitung," 
 and a French paper is taken up, one's pride suffers. 
 A cautious or commonplace pohtical paragraph, a 
 vague or too comph\cent editorial, scanty correspond- 
 ence alwa^'s got up, very little precise information and 
 sound discussion, a good many phrases of which some 
 are well written, such is the substance of a French 
 newspaper ; and this is poor, not merely because the 
 government interferes, but again and especially, be- 
 cause intelligent readers capable of serious attention 
 are too few in number. The public does not insist on 
 being furnished with facts and with proofs ; it requu'es 
 to be amused, or to have a ready-made idea clearly 
 resifted. A few cultivated minds at the most, a 
 Parisian coterie with small provincial branches, detects 
 here and there an allusion, a bit of irony or of malice, 
 at which it laughs and is satisfied. If our journals are 
 politically defective it is because the whole country is 
 defective in political aptitude and instruction. Here, 
 it is asserted, the ItaHans have naturally an instinct 
 and talent for pohtical affairs ; — in any event they are 
 passionately fond of them. 
 
 Many persons in a good position to observe, often 
 tell me that if France posts its sentinels ten years 
 longer on the Alps in order to prevent an Austrian in- 
 vasion the hberal party will have doubled : the schools, 
 the journals and the army, every accumulation of pros- 
 perity and of intelligence contributes to increase it. 
 Provincial or municipal jealousies are no obstacle 
 whatever. In the begmning there was some disaffec- 
 tion apparent in Tuscany, and some resistance ; this 
 section of the country was the most contented and the 
 best governed in Italy ; there was some hesitation in 
 submitting to Turin, and in taking risks; but the 
 Marquis Gino Capponi, the man the most respected in 
 the Tuscan party, declared in favor of the union as 
 
80 
 
 FLOKENCE. 
 
 there was no other means for maintaining an existence 
 in modern Europe. All the great Italians, moreover, 
 since Machiaveili and Dante have urged in their 
 writings the importance of being able to resist Austria. 
 To-day all are united and fused together ; we already 
 see in the army a kind of common language which is 
 a compromise between the various dialects. 
 
 Two traits distinguish this revolution from ours. In 
 the first place the Italians are neither levellers nor so- 
 cialists. The noble is on a familiar footing with the 
 peasant, he converses with the people in a friendly 
 manner ; the latter, far from being hostile to their 
 nobility, are rather proud of it. AU property is subject 
 to the metayer system,^ and the division of products 
 establishes a sort of companionship between the owner 
 and the farmer. This farmer is often on the podere 
 (manor) two hundred years, from father to son, and 
 consequently is a conservative adverse to innovations, 
 and inaccessible to theories ; the system of cultivation 
 is the same as under the Medicis which was much ad- 
 vanced for those times, but far behind for these. The 
 proprietor comes in October to superintend his harvest 
 and then departs ; — not that he is a " gentleman 
 farmer," for he has an agent, and often possesses seven 
 or eight villas, in one of which he resides ; with no 
 moral or political authority over the peasantry as in 
 England he yet lives on good terms with theni. He is 
 not scornful, insolent or a " citadin," like our ancient 
 nobles ; he loves economy and, formerly, sold his own 
 wine. For this purpose every palace had an opening 
 through which customers passed their empty bottles 
 and received them full on paying the money ; sup- 
 pressed vanity leaves to human benevolence a much 
 larger field of action. The master " lives and lets live." 
 
 * An equal or relative division of products of land between the 
 cultivator and the proprietor. 
 
ITALIAN TRAITS. 81 
 
 There is no pulling and hauling ; the meshes of the 
 social web are relaxed and they do not break. Hence 
 the ability of the country to govern itself since 1859. 
 In this respect it is more fortunate than we are. It is 
 a great feature in the organization of a government or 
 of a nation not to feel your feet resting on commu- 
 nistic instincts and theories. 
 
 In the second place they are not Voltairians. Beren- 
 ger's commercial traveller, philosopher and student is 
 not with them a frequent or popular character."'^ They 
 do not approve of the violent language of the "Diritto." 
 They are too imaginative, too poetic, and besides that, 
 are endowed with too much good sense ; thej are too 
 conscious of social necessities, too remote from our 
 logical abstractions to desire to suppress religion as we 
 did in 1792. They are educated to see processions, 
 sacred paintings and pompous or noble churches ; their 
 Catholicism forms a part of the habits of their eyes, 
 their ears, thei^ imagination and their taste ; they need 
 it as they need their beautiful climate. Never will an 
 Italian sacrifice all this, like a Frenchman, to an ab- 
 straction of the reasoning brain ; his way of conceiving 
 things is quite otherwise, much less absolute, much 
 more complex, much less adapted to sudden demoli- 
 tions, much better accommodated to the world as it is. 
 And still another substantial support is this, they build 
 on a religion and a society that are intact, and are not 
 obhged, like our politicians, to guard against grand 
 convulsions. 
 
 Other circumstances or traits of character are less 
 favorable. There is a greater lack of energy in Tuscany 
 than elsewhere. In 1859 the country furnished twelve 
 thousand men against the Austrians, — six thousand be- 
 longing to the old army, and six thousand volunteers, — 
 and many came back. They boast of a few heroes, 
 
 * See the apothecary Homais in " Madame Bovary" by G. Fhmbcrt. 
 
 4^- 
 
82 FLORENCE, 
 
 individuals like M. Montanelli, always in quest of 
 bullets ; but as to the masses discipline annoys them ; 
 the strictness of military life takes them by surprise ; 
 they miss their cup of coffee in the morning. In 
 Florence, society for the past three hundred years has 
 been epicurean ; nobody feels uneasy on account of his 
 children, his relatives or anybody els-e ; people love to 
 gossip and lounge about ; they are spirituel and ego- 
 tistical. On getting a small income a man wraps him- 
 self up in his cloak and goes to a cafe to chat away the 
 time. On the other hand the tyranny of habit and of 
 the imagination is an obstacle to the formation of any 
 definite religious opinions. They do not see clearly 
 into the catholic question. No one conceives before- 
 hand a positive personal symbol as in France in the 
 eighteenth century, or as in Germany in the time of 
 Luther ; reason and conscience do not speak loud 
 enough. They say vaguely that Catholicism should ac- 
 commodate itself to modern necessities, but without 
 precisely defining the concessions it ought to make or 
 be forced to make ; they do not know what might be 
 exacted or abandoned. They committed a grave mis- 
 take in 1859 in not instituting the civil marriage, and 
 in not returning to the Leopoldian laws. The Pope, 
 by his perseverance, had undermined or transformed 
 them ; he could not endure by his side a true laic gov- 
 ernment. Now, with such an adversary confronting 
 them, it is important to decide, apart from one's self 
 and in advance, what one will yield if necessary and 
 what will be insisted on at all hazards ; for his imper- 
 ceptible encroachments are tenacious hke those of the 
 ivy, and irresolution is always mastered by obstinacy. 
 Add to this that a notable part of the clergy, most of 
 the prelates, are for him ; one of these, the cardinal of 
 Pisa, possesses all the rigidity of the middle ages and 
 is jpapaMle. — The Italians to sum up, are in a strait. 
 They would like to remain good catholics, keep the 
 
ITALIAN TRAITS. 83 
 
 capital of the christian world amongst them, and yet 
 reduce the Pope to the position of the Grand Llama 
 without being able to see that, once despoiled, he be- 
 comes forever inimical ; it is like " wedding the Grand 
 Turk to the republic of Venice." These are their two 
 weak points, a lack of the military spirit and irresolu- 
 tion in religious matters. Things must be left to time 
 and to necessity, which may strengthen one and define 
 the other. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE PIAZZA.— EEPUBLICAN SOCIETY IN THE MIDDLE AGES.— STEEET 
 FEAYS AXD FA3IILY FEUDS.— THE PALAZZO-VECCHIO.— CONTRAST 
 BETWEEN MEDLEVAL AND RENAISSANCE MONUMENTS.— THE 
 DUOMO.— MIXED AND ORIGINAL CHARACTER OF THE ARCHITEC- 
 TURE.— THE CA]iIPANILE. — THE BAPTISTERY.— ITALY REMAINS 
 LATIN.— PRECOCITY OF THE RENAISSANCE.— BRUNELLES CHI, DON- 
 ATELLO AND GHLBERTI. 
 
 In a city like this one wanders about for the first few 
 days without any plan. How can you expect one in 
 this medley of works and of ages to attain at once to a 
 definite idea ? It is necessary to turn over the leaves 
 before reading. 
 
 Our first visit is to the Piazza della Signoria ; here, 
 as at Sienna, was the centre of republican life ; here as 
 at Sienna, the old town hall, the Palazzo-Yecchio, is a 
 mediseval structure, an enormous block of stone pierced 
 with occasional trefoil windows, with a heavy cornice 
 of projecting battlements and flanked with a similar 
 high tower, a veritable domestic citadel calculated for 
 strife and a beacon, on the defensive near by and 
 visible afar off, a perfect panoply crowned with a 
 visible crest. It is impossible to look at it without 
 being reminded of the intestine wars described by 
 Dino CamxDagni. Times in Italy were rude during the 
 middle ages ; we only had a war of castles, they had 
 the warfare of the streets. For thirty-three successive 
 years, in the thirteenth century, the Buondelmonti on 
 the one side with forty-two families, and the Uberti, 
 on the other, with twenty-two families, fought without 
 ceasing. They barricaded streets with chevaux-de- 
 frises and fortified the houses ; the nobles filled the 
 city with their armed peasants fi'om the country. 
 
CIVIC STRIFES. 85 
 
 Finally, tliirtj-six palaces, belonging to the vanquished 
 were demolished ; and if the town-hall has an irregular 
 shape, it is owing to the furious vengeance which 
 compelled the architect to leave vacant the detested 
 sites on which the destroyed houses stood. What 
 would Ave say in these days if a battle in our streets, 
 like that of June, lasted, not merely three days but 
 thirty years ; if irrevocable banishments deprived the 
 nation of a quarter of its population ; if the com- 
 munity of exiles, in league with strangers, roamed 
 around our frontier awaiting the chances of a plot, or of 
 a surprise, to force our walls and proscribe their per- 
 secutors in turn ; if enmities and fresh strife intervened 
 to irritate the conquerors after a victory ; if the cit}", 
 already devastated, was forced to constantly add to its 
 devastations ; if sudden popular tumults arose to com- 
 phcate the internecine struggles of the nobles ; if, every 
 month, an insurrection caused the shops to be closed ; 
 if, every evening, a man on leaving his house, dreaded 
 an enemy in ambush at the nearest corner ? " Many 
 of the citizens," says Dino Campagni, " having as- 
 sembled one day on the square of the Frescobaldi, in 
 order to bury a deceased woman, and, as was customary 
 on such occasions, the citizens sitting below on rush 
 mats and the cavaliers and doctors above on the 
 benches, the Donati and the Cerchi sitting below 
 facing each other, one of these, in order to arrange his 
 mantle, or for some other reason, arose to his feet. 
 His adversaries, suspecting something, sprang up also 
 and drew their swords. The others did likewise, and 
 they came to blows." Such a circumstance shows how 
 high strung spirits were ; burnished swords, ever ready, 
 leaped of themselves out of their scabbards. On leaving 
 the table, heated with wine and words, their hands 
 itched. " A party of young men in the habit of galloping 
 together, being at supper one evening in the kalends of 
 May, became so excited that they resolved to engage 
 
86 
 
 FLOEENCE. 
 
 the troop of the Cerchi, and employ their hands and 
 arms against them. On this evening, which is the 
 advent of Spring, the women assemble at the halls in 
 their neighborhood to dance.^ The young men of the 
 Cerchi encountered accordingly, the troop of the 
 Donati, which attacked them with drawn swords. And 
 in this encounter, Eicoverino of the Cerchi, had his 
 nose cut by a man in the pay of the Donati, which 
 
 person it was said was Piero Spini ; but the 
 
 Cerchi never disclosed his name, intending thus to 
 obtain greater vengeance^ This expression, almost 
 removed from our minds, is the key of Itahan history ; 
 the vendetta, in Corsican fashion, is a naturalized, per- 
 manent thing between man and man, family and family, 
 party and party, and generation and generation. " A 
 worthy young man named Guido, son of Messire 
 Cavalcante Cavalcanti, and a noble cavalier, courteous 
 and brave but proud, reserved and fond of study, at 
 enmity with Messire Corro, had frequently resolved to 
 encounter him. Messire Corro feared him greatly be- 
 cause he knew him to be of great courage, and sought 
 to assassinate Guido while he was upon a pilgrimage 
 
 to St. James, which attempt failed Guido, 
 
 thereupon, on returning to Florence, stirred up some 
 of the young men against him, who promised him 
 their aid. And one day being on horseback with some 
 of the followers of the house of Cerchi and with a 
 javelin in his hand, he spurred his horse against 
 Messire Corro, thinking that he was supported by his 
 party, and, passing him, he threw his javelin at him 
 without hitting him. There was with Messire Corro 
 Simon, his son, a brave and bold young man, and 
 Cecchino dei Bardi, and likewise many others with 
 swords who started in pursuit of him, but not overtak- 
 
 * See tlie first act of Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare has im- 
 iginecl and portrayed these customs with admirable fidelity. 
 
THE LOGGIA. 87 
 
 ing liim, tliey laiinclied stones after him and also flung 
 them out of the windows on him so that he was 
 wounded in the hand." In order to find similar 
 practices at the present day we have to go to the 
 placers of San Francisco, where, at the first provoca- 
 tion, in public and at balls or in a cafe, the revolver 
 speaks, supplying the place of policemen and dis- 
 pensing with the formalities of a duel. Lynch law, 
 frequently applied, is alone qualified to pacify such 
 temperaments. It was applied now and then in 
 Florence, but too rarely, and in an irregular manner, 
 which is the reason why the custom of looking out 
 for one's self, of ready blows and honored and honorable 
 assassination prevailed there up to the end of and 
 beyond the middle ages. To make amends this 
 custom of keeping the mind alwaj^s on the stretch, of 
 constantly occupying it with painful and tragic senti- 
 ments, rendered it so much the more sensitive to the 
 arts Avhose beauty and serenity afforded such contrasts. 
 This deep feudal stratum, so ploughed and broken up, 
 was essential in order to provide aliment and a soil for 
 the vivacious roots of the renaissance. 
 
 The little book in which these stories are narrated is 
 by Dino Campagni, a contemporary of Dante ; it is 
 about the size of the hand, costs two francs and can be 
 carried about with one in the pocket. Between two 
 monuments, in a cafe, under a loggia one reads a few 
 passages — an affray, a council, a sedition — and the 
 mute stones speak. 
 
 But when the eye passes from the Palazzo-Vecchio 
 and turns to neighboring monuments there appears on 
 all sides a joyous aspect and a love of beauty. The 
 Loggia de'Lanzi on the right presents antique statues, 
 bold, original figures of the sixteenth century — a 
 " Eape of the Sabines" by John of Bologna, a 
 " Judith" by Donatello, and the " Perseus" of Cellini. 
 The latter is a Grecian ephebos, a sort of nude Mercury 
 
»» FLORENCE. 
 
 of great simplicity of expression. The renaissance 
 statuary certainly revives or continues the antique 
 statuary, not the earliest, that of Phidias, who is calm 
 and wholly divine, but the later, that of Lysippus who 
 aims at the human. This Perseus is brother to the 
 Discobulus and has had his actual anatomical model : 
 his knees are a little heavy, and the veins of the arms 
 are too prominent ; the blood spouting from Medusa's 
 neck forms a gross, full jet, the exact imitation of a 
 decapitation. But what wonderful fidelity to nature ! 
 The woman is really dead ; her hmbs and joints have 
 suddenly become relaxed ; the arm hangs languidly, 
 the body is contorted and the leg drawn up in agony. 
 Underneath, on the pedestal, amidst garlands of 
 flowers and goats' heads, in shell-shaped niches of the 
 purest and most elegant taste, stand four exquisite 
 bronze statuettes with all the living nudity of the 
 antique. 
 
 I try to translate to myself this term living, ^vhich I 
 find constantly on my lips, on contemplating renais- 
 sance figures. It just came into my mind on looking at 
 the fountain of Ammanati fi^om the other side of the 
 palace, consisting of nude Tritons and graceful Nereids, 
 with heads too small, and gTand elongated forms in 
 action, like the figTires of Eosso and Primaticcio. Art, 
 of course, degenerates and becomes mannered, exag- 
 geratmg the prancing and the display of the hmbs, and 
 altering proportions in order to render the body more 
 spirited and elegant. And yet these figures belong to 
 the same family as the others, and are living, like them ; 
 that is to say they freely and unconsciously enjoy 
 physical existence, content in spreading out and in 
 lifting up their legs, in falling backward and in a parade 
 of themselves hke splendid animals. The bestial 
 Tritons are thoroughly jovial ; there could not be more 
 honest nudity and greater effrontery without baseness. 
 They rear up, clutch each other, and force out their 
 
THE DUOMO. 89 
 
 muscles ; you feel that tliis satisfies tliem, that that fine 
 young fellow is content to take a spirited attitude and 
 to hold a cornucopia ; that this nymph, undraped and 
 passive, does not transcend in thought her condition of 
 superb animality. There are no metaphysical sj^mbols 
 here, no pensive expressions. The sculptor suffers his 
 heads to retain the simple, calm physiognomies of a 
 primitive organization ; the body and its pose are 
 everything to him. He keeps within the limits of his 
 art ; its domain consists of the members of the body, 
 and he cannot after all do more than accentuate torsos, 
 thighs and necks ; through this involuntary harmony 
 of his thought and of his resources he animates his 
 bronze and, for lack of this harmony, we no longer 
 know how to do as much. 
 
 Desirous of seeing the beginnings of this renaissance 
 we go from the Palazzo-Yecchio to the Duomo. Both 
 form the double heart of Florence, such as it beat in 
 the middle ages, the former for politics, and the latter 
 for religion, and the two so well united that they 
 formed but one. Nothing can be nobler than the 
 public edict passed in 1294 for the construction of the 
 national cathedral. "Whereas, it being of sovereign 
 prudence on the part of a people of high origin to 
 proceed in its affairs in such a manner that the wisdom 
 no less than the magnanimity of its proceedings be rec- 
 ognized in its outward works, it is ordered that Arnolfo 
 master architect of our commune, prepare models or 
 designs for the restoration of Santa Maria Eeparata, 
 with the most exalted and most prodigal magnificence, 
 in order that the industry and power of men may 
 never create or undertake anything whatsoever more vast 
 and more beautiful ; in accordance with tliat which 
 our wisest citizens have declared and counselled in 
 public session and in secret conclave, to wit, that no 
 hand be laid upon the Avorks of the commune without 
 the intent of making them to correspond to the noble 
 
90 FLORENCE. 
 
 soul wliich is composed of the souls of all its citizens 
 united in one will." In this ample period breathes the 
 grandiose pride and intense patriotism of the ancient 
 republics. Athens'under Pericles, and Eome under the 
 first Scipio cherished no prouder sentiments. At each 
 step, here as elsewhere, in texts and in monuments, is 
 found, in Italy, the traces, the renewal and the spirit of 
 classic antiquity. 
 
 Let us, accordingly, look at the celebrated Duomo, — 
 but the diflS.culty is to see it. It stands upon flat 
 ground, and, in order that the eye might embrace its 
 mass it would be necessary to level three hundred 
 buildings. Herein appears the defect of the great 
 mediseyal structure ; even to-day, after so many open- 
 ings effected by modern demolish ers, most of the 
 cathedrals are visible only on paper. The spectator 
 catches sight of a fragment, some section of a wall, or 
 the facade ; but the whole escapes him ; man's work is 
 no longer proportioned to his organs. It was not thus 
 in antiquity ; temples were small or of mediocre dimen- 
 sions, and were almost always erected on an eminence ; 
 their general form and complete profile could be enjoyed 
 from twenty different points of view. After the advent 
 of Christianity men's conceptions transcended their 
 forces, and the ambition of the spirit no longer took 
 into account the limitations of the body. The human 
 machine lost its equilibrium ; with forgetfulness of the 
 moderate there was established a love of the odd. 
 Without either reason or symmetry campaniles or bell- 
 towers were planted, like isolated posts, in front or 
 alongside of cathedrals ; there is one of these alongside 
 of the Duomo, and this change of human equipoise must 
 have been potent, since even here, among so many 
 latin traditions and classic aptitudes, it declares itself. 
 
 In other respects, save the ogive arcades, the monu- 
 ment is not gothic but byzantine, or, rather, original ; 
 it is a creature of a new and mixed form like the new 
 
THE DUOMO. 91 
 
 and mixed civilization of wliich it is tlie offspring. 
 You feel power and invention in it with a touch of 
 quaintness and fancy. Walls of enormous grandeur 
 are developed or expanded without the few windows in 
 them happening to impair their massiveness or dimin- 
 ish their strength. There are no flying buttresses ; 
 they are self-sustaining. Marble panels, alternately 
 yellow and black, cover them with a glittering mar- 
 quetry, and curves of arches let into their masses seem 
 to be the bones of a robust skeleton beneath the skin. 
 The Latin cross, which the edifice figures, contracts at 
 the top, and the chancel and transepts bubble out into 
 rotundities and projections, in petty domes behind the 
 church in order to accompany the grand dome which 
 ascends above the choir, and which, the work of Bru- 
 nelleschi, newer and yet more antique than that of St. 
 Peter, lifts in the air to an astonishing height its elon- 
 gated form, its octagonal sides and its pointed lantern. 
 But how can a physiognomy of a church be conveyed 
 by words ? It has one nevertheless ; all its portions 
 aiDpearing together are combined in one chord and in 
 one effect. If you examine the plans and old engrav- 
 ings you will appreciate the bizarre and captivating 
 harmony of these grand Koman walls overlaid with 
 oriental fancies ; of these gothic ogives arranged in 
 byzantine cupolas ; of these light Italian columns 
 forming a circle above a bordering of Grecian caissons ; 
 of this assemblage of aU forms, pointed, swelling, 
 angular, oblong, circular and octagonal. Greek and 
 Latin antiquity, the Byzantine and Saracenic orient, 
 the Germanic and Italian middle-age, the entire past, 
 shattered, amalgamated and transformed, seems to 
 have been melted over anew in the human furnace in 
 order to flow out in fresh forms in the hands of the 
 new genius of Giotto, Arnolfo, Brunelleschi and 
 Dante. 
 
 Here the work is unfinished, and the success is not 
 
93 FLOKENCE. 
 
 complete. The facade has not been constructed : all 
 that we see of it is a great naked, scarified wall similar 
 to a leper's plaster. There is no light within : a line 
 of small round bays and a few windows fill the immen- 
 sity of the edifice with a gray illumination : it is bare, 
 and the argillaceous tone in which it is painted depresses 
 the eye with its wan monotony. A " Pieta" by Michael 
 Angelo and a few statues seem like spectres ; the bas- 
 reliefs are only vague confusion. The architect, hesi- 
 tating between mediaeval and antique taste, fell only 
 upon a lifeless light, that between a pure light and a 
 colored light. 
 
 The more we contemplate architectural works the 
 more do we find them adapted to express the prevail- 
 ing spirit of an epoch. Here, on the fiank of the 
 Duomo, stands the Campanile by Giotto, erect, isolated, 
 like St. Michael's tower at Bordeaux, or the tower of 
 St. Jacques at Paris ; the mediaeval man, in fact, loves 
 to build high ; he aspires to heaven, his elevations all 
 tapering off into pointed pinnacles ; if this one had 
 been finished a spire of thirty feet would have sur- 
 mounted the tower, itself two hundred and fifty feet 
 high. Hitherto the northern architect and the Italian 
 architect are governed by the same instinct, and gratify 
 the same penchant ; but whilst the northern artist, 
 frankly gothic, embroiders his tower with delicate 
 mouldings and complex flower-work, and a stone lace- 
 work infinitely multiplied and intersected, the southern 
 artist, half-latin through his tendencies and his reminis- 
 cences, erects a square, strong and full pile, in which a 
 skilful ornamentation does not efface the general 
 structure, which is not a frail sculptured bijou but a 
 solid durable monument, its coating of red, black and 
 white marble covering it with royal luxuriance, and 
 which, through its healthy and animated statues, its 
 bas-reliefs framed in medallions, recalls the friezes 
 and pediments of an antique temple. In these medal- 
 
THE BAPTISTERY. 93 
 
 lions Giotto lias sj^mbolizecl the principal epochs of 
 human civilization ; the traditions of Greece near 
 those of Judea, Adam, Tubal-Cain and Noah, Daedalus, 
 Hercules and Antaeus, the invention of ploughing, the 
 mastery of the horse, and the discovery of the arts and 
 the sciences ; laic and philosophic sentiment live freely 
 in him side by side with a theological and religious 
 sentiment. Do we not already see in this renaissance of 
 the fourteenth century that of the sixteenth ? In order 
 to pass from one to the other, it will suffice for the spirit 
 of the first to become ascendant over the spirit of the 
 second ; at the end of a century we are to see in the 
 adornment of the edifice, in these statues by Donatello, 
 in their baldness so expressive, in the sentiment of the 
 real and natural life displayed among the goldsmiths 
 and sculptors, evidence of the transformation begun 
 under Giotto having been already accomplished. 
 
 Every step we take we encounter some sign of this 
 persistency or precocity of a latin and classic spirit. 
 Facing the Duomo is the Baptistery, which at first 
 served as a church, a sort of octagonal temple sur- 
 mounted by a cupola, built, doubtless, after the model 
 of the Pantheon of Rome, and which, according to the 
 testimony of a contemporary bishop, already in the 
 eighth century projected upward the pompous rotun- 
 dities of its imperial forms. Here, then, in the 
 most barbarous epoch of the middle ages, is a prolon- 
 gation, a renewal, or, at least, an imitation of Roman 
 architecture. You enter, and find that the decoration 
 is not all gothic : a circle of corinthian columns of 
 precious marbles with, above these, a circle of smaller 
 columns surmounted by loftier arcades, and, on the 
 vault, a legion of saints and angels peopling the entire 
 space, gathering in four rows around a grand, dull, mea- 
 gre, melancholy, Byzantine Christ. On these three super- 
 posed stories the three gradual distortions of antique 
 art appear ; but, distorted or intact, it is always an- 
 
94 
 
 FLOKENCE. 
 
 tique art. A significant feature, this, tlirougliout the 
 history of Italy : she did not become germanic. In 
 the tenth century the degraded Eonian still subsisted 
 distinct and intact side by side with the proud Bar- 
 barian, and Bishop Luitpi|^nd: wrote : " We Lombards, 
 as well as the Saxons, Franks, Lorraniaks, Bavarians, 
 Suabians and Burgundians, so utterly despise the 
 Eoman name that, when in choler, we know not how 
 to insult our enemies more grievously than to call them 
 Eomans, for, in this name we include whatever is base, 
 whatever is cowardly, whatever is perfidious, the ex- 
 tremes of avarice and luxury, and every vice that can 
 prostitute the dignity of human nature." ^"■ 
 
 In the twelfth century the Germans under Frederick 
 Barbarossa, counting upon finding in the Lombards 
 men of the same race as themselves, were surprised to 
 find them so latinized, "having discarded the asperi- 
 ties of barbarian rudeness and imbibed from sun and 
 atmosphere something of Boman finesse and gentle- 
 ^ ness, preserving the elegance of diction and the ur- 
 banity of antique customs and imitating, even to their 
 cities and the regulation of public affairs, the abihty of 
 the ancient Bomans."t Down to the thirteenth cen- 
 tury they continue to speak latin ; St. Anthony of 
 Padua preached in latin ; the people jargbning in in- 
 cipient Italian, always understand the literary language^ 
 the same as a peasant of Berri or Burgundy whose 
 rustic patois is no obstacle in the way of his com- 
 prehending the purer discourse of his cure. The two 
 great feudal creations, gothic architecture and chivalric 
 poesy, appear among them only at a late hour, and 
 through importation. Dante states that, even in 1313, 
 no Italian had composed a chivalric poem ; those of 
 France were translated, or were read in the Provencal 
 
 * Quoted by Gibbon. f Otho of Freysingen. 
 
 X Litteraliter and sapienter opposed to maternaliter. 
 
GHIBERTI. 95 
 
 dialect. Tlie sole gothic monuments of Italy, Assisi 
 and the Duomo of Milan, are constructed by foreign- 
 ers. Fundamentally, and under external or temporary 
 alterations, the local latin structure remains unchanged, 
 and in the sixteenth century the christian and feudal 
 envelope is to drop off of itself in order to allow the 
 reappearance of that noble and sensuous paganism 
 which had never been destroyed. 
 
 There was no need of waiting until that time. Sculp- 
 ture, which, once before under Nicholas of Pisa, 
 had anticipated painting, again anticipated it in the 
 fifteenth century ; these very doors of the Baptistery 
 enable one to see with what sudden perfection and bril- 
 liancy. Three men then appeared, Brunelleschi, the 
 architect of the Duomo, Donatello, who decorated the 
 Campanile with statues, and Ghiberti, who cast the 
 two gates of the Baptistery,"^ all three friends and 
 rivals, all three having commenced with the gold- 
 smith's art and a study of the living model, and all 
 three passionately devoted to the antique ; Brunel- 
 leschi drawing and measuring Eoman monuments, 
 Donatello at Eome copying statues and bas-reliefs and 
 Ghiberti importing from Greece torsos, vases and heads 
 which he restored, imitated and worshipped. " It is 
 impossible," said he in speaking of an antique statue, 
 " to express its perfection by words. ... It has in- 
 finite suavities which the eye alone cannot detect ; only 
 the touch of the hand discovers them !" And he alluded 
 sorrowfully to the great persecutions through which 
 under Constantine "the statues and paintings that 
 breathe such nobleness and perfect dignity were over- 
 thrown and broken in pieces, besides the severe penal- 
 ties which threatened all who undertook to make new 
 ones, which led to the extinction of art and of the doc- 
 trines that appertain thereto." When one has such a 
 
 * The first born in 1377, the second in 138G, and tlie third in 1387. 
 
96 FLORENCE. 
 
 lively sentiment of classical perfection he is not far 
 from attaining to it. Toward 1400, at the age of 
 twenty-three, after a competition from which Brunel- 
 leschi withdraws in 'his favor, he secures the commission 
 for the execution of the two doors ; under his hands 
 we see a revival of pure Greek beauty, and not merely 
 a vigorous imitation of the actual body as Donatello 
 comprehended it, but an appreciation of ideal and per- 
 fect form. In his bas-rehefs there are numerous female 
 figures which in the nobleness of their shape and of 
 their head and in the calm simphcity and develop- 
 ment of their attitude, seem to be Athenian master- 
 pieces. They are not too elongated, as with Michael 
 Angelo's successors, or too vigorous as Avith the three 
 Graces of Raphael. His Eve, just born, bending for- 
 ward and raising her large calm eyes to the Creator, is 
 a primitive nymph, naive and pure, in whom appear 
 balanced instincts in repose and in activity at the same 
 momejit. The same dignity and harmony regulates 
 the groupings and arranges the scenes. Processions 
 defile and turn as around a vase ; individuals and 
 crowds are mutually opposed and related as in an an- 
 tique chorus ; the symmetrical forms of ancient archi- 
 tecture dispose around colonnades the grave, manly 
 figures, the falling draperies, the varied, appropriate 
 and moderate attitudes of the beautiful tragedy 
 enacted beneath its porticoes. One of the youthful 
 soldiers seems to be an Alcibiades ; before him marches 
 a Eoman consul ; blooming young women of incom- 
 parable freshness and vigor turn half-round, gazing 
 and extending an arm, one of them Hke a Juno and an- 
 other an amazon, all arrested at one of those rare mo- 
 ments when the nobleness of physical life attains to its 
 plenitude and perfection without an effort and without 
 reflection. When passion excites the muscles and dis- 
 turbs countenances it is without deforming or dis- 
 torting them ; the Florentine sculptor as formerly the 
 
GHIBERTI. 97 
 
 Grecian poet, does not allow it to pursue its course 
 to the end ; lie subjects it to the law of proportion and 
 subordinates expression to beauty. He does not wish 
 the spectator to be disturbed by a display of crude 
 violence, nor borne away by the thrilling vivacity of 
 impetuous action suddenly arrested. For him art is a 
 harmony which purifies emotion in order to render 
 the spirit healthy. No man, save Eaphael, has more 
 happily found that unique moment of natural, choice 
 inventiveness, the precious moment when a work of art 
 anintentionally becomes a moral work. The " School 
 of Athens" and the Loggia of the Yatican seem to be of 
 the same school as the doors of the Baptistery, and, to 
 complete the resemblance, Ghiberti handles bronze as 
 if he were a painter; in abundance of figures, in the 
 interest of the scenes, in the grandeur of the land- 
 scapes, in the use of perspective, and in the variety and 
 relationship of the several planes which recede and 
 sink down, his sculptures are almost pictures. — But the 
 north wind blows amongst the masses of stones as 
 through a mountain defile, and when one has wielded 
 an opera-glass for half an hour in it he turns away, 
 even from Ghiberti himself, for a cup of poor coffee in 
 a miserable auberge. 
 
BOOK in. 
 
 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE EAELY PAINTEES.— THE BYZANTINES.— CIMABUE.— GIOTTO.— 
 FIKST EVIDENCES OF THE LAIC, ITALIAN AND PAGAN SPIEIT.— 
 THE SUCCESSOKS OF GIOTTO.— AET AT THIS EPOCH EEPRE- 
 SENTED IDEAS AND NOT OBJECTS. 
 
 April 12. — Here are five or six days passed in tlie 
 Academy of the Fine Arts, at the Uffizj, in the convent 
 of St. Mark, at Santa Croce, Santa Maria Novella and 
 in the church of the Carmine, Yasari in hand. One 
 may here note every step of Painting ; and it is impor- 
 tant to note them for, otherwise, in this semi-barbarous 
 age, it has little interest. 
 
 From what low depths has it not arisen ! At the 
 Academy a St. Mary Magdalen, painted by some By- 
 zantine artist, has shapeless feet, wooden hands, pro- 
 jecting ears, and the figure and the pose of a mummy ; 
 her tresses, which fall to her feet, form a hairy robe, 
 appearing at the first glance like that of a bear. The 
 most ancient picture in the Uffizj is a Madonna by Eico 
 of Candia, a figure apparently of gingerbread. These 
 are sign-painters, copyists by the yard, and their sim- 
 plicity is grotesque. 
 
 The distance between the mechanic and the artist is 
 infinite, like that between night and day ; but between 
 night and day comes the paleness of dawn, and how- 
 ever dim the dawn it is nevertheless daylight. Thus is 
 it with Cimabue, who already belongs to the new 
 order of things, for he invents and expresses ; his 
 
CIMABUE. 99 
 
 Madonna at tlie Academy, as yet somewhat lifeless, is 
 not deficient in a certain grave benignity ; two angels 
 below her stand in an attitude of monrnful grace and 
 meekness. Of the four old men at the bottom of the 
 picture, two have no necks ; but you recognize in them 
 a certain aspect of seriousness and of grandeur, one of 
 them appearing to be attentive and surprised. An 
 expression, even when a feeble one, is it not a miracu- 
 lous thing, like the first confused stammerings of a 
 mute on suddenly recovering his speech? We can 
 understand how the Madonna of Santa Maria Novella, 
 whose hands are so meagre and who seems so doleful 
 to us, excited " the wonder of all to such a degree that 
 they brought the King of Anjou to the studio, and all 
 the men and women of Florence gathered there in 
 grand festivity with a great concourse of people, and 
 the picture was transported from Cimabue's house to 
 the church with great pomp, and with trumpets and in 
 solemn procession." On whatever side we study his 
 works we find that he anticipates all subsequent inno- 
 vations. He executed, says Yasari, a St. Francis after 
 nature which was a new thing, and opposed to the sys- 
 tem of the Greeks his masters,"^ w^ho only painted 
 according to tradition. To return to the living figure, 
 to discover that in order to imitate the human form it 
 is necessary to contemplate the human form, what 
 could be simpler ? And yet therein lies the gist of all 
 art. This is perceptible in the Uffizj gallery, in a small 
 picture representing St. Catherine in her cauldron. 
 The muscles of the torso are indicated and the bosom 
 is quite made out; the three women in long green 
 robes are nobly posed. You remember the grave 
 Madonna in the Louvre, and the grandeur, and spirited 
 action of the angels that surround her. "Cimabue," 
 
 * This refers to Byzantine painters wlio were the conventional 
 artists of the day. 
 
100 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 says a commentator on Dante, *' was more noble than 
 can be told, and, withal, so proud and disdainful, that 
 if any one detected, or he discovered, a defect in any 
 of his works, he immediately abandoned it however 
 great its value." We find some traces of this proud 
 spirit in the haughty and calm attitudes of some of 
 his figures. A soul with a life of its own, a distinct 
 and characteristic personality disclosing itself even in a 
 vague mist, what a novelty ! All art, its principle, its 
 dignity, its recompense, is therein manifested — to reveal 
 and to perpetuate a personahty, that of the artist, and 
 of this personality whatever is essential. In every 
 degree, and in every domain, his business is to say to 
 men, " Behold that which is in me and what I am ; it 
 is for you to contemplate, to appreciate and to appro- 
 priate whatever seems to you good !" 
 
 The second step, that taken by Giotto, is much 
 greater, and, with due proportion, equal to that which 
 separates Eaphael from Perugino, or da Vinci from Ye- 
 rocchio. Alongside of him, Margheritone, maintaining 
 traditionary practices, designedly executed ugly and 
 sometimes hideous figures ; Giotto attained to the 
 beautiful through the lively, spontaneous invention of 
 a complete, happy and even gay genius of the Italian 
 order. Although born in a mystic century he is not 
 himself mystic, and if he was the friend of Dante he 
 did not resemble him. His, above all, was a varied, 
 fertile, facile and richly creative nature ; at Florence, 
 Assisi, Padua, Kome, Ferrara, Eimini and Avignon 
 are entire chapels and churches, painted by his hand. 
 " He labored at so many works that if one were to re- 
 count them all no person would credit it." These 
 fecund and facile genuises are inclined to joyousness 
 and are disposed to take life easily. " He was very in- 
 genious," says Vasari, " and very agreeable in con- 
 versation and highly skilled in sayings of wit, the 
 meaning of which is still preserved in this city." 
 
GIOTTO. 101 
 
 Those reported of liim are coarse and obscene, wit, in 
 those days conforming to the manners and customs 
 which were those of peasants. Some are even toler- 
 ably religious ; on explaining why, in pictures, St. 
 Joseph has a melancholy air, he might be taken for a 
 contemporary of Pulci. We discover in him the 
 laic spirit, sententious and even positive, satiric and 
 inimical to asceticism and h^^pocrisy. He who painted 
 " The Marriage of St. Francis with Poverty" ridicules 
 and openly rebukes the vaingloriousness and rapacity 
 of the monks. "For the poverty which seems de- 
 liberate and chosen," says he in his little poem, " ex- 
 perience plainly shows that it is practised or not ac- 
 cording to what is in the pocket. And if it is practised 
 it is not to render it laudable, for there is no discern- 
 ment of the mind in it, nor knowledge, nor courtesy, 
 nor virtue. Certainly it seems to me a great shame, to 
 call that virtue which suppresses good ; and it is evil- 
 doing to prefer a beastly thing to the virtues, which 
 bring salvation to all wise understandings, and which 
 are such that the more they are prized the more de- 
 lectable they are." Here is laic virtue, moral dignity, 
 and the superior culture of the intellect openly pre- 
 ferred to monkish rigors and christian mortifications. 
 Giotto, indeed, is already a thinker among other 
 thinkers, side by side with Guido Cavalcanti and his 
 father, who are reported as epicureans and fortified 
 with arguments against the existence of God, and 
 Cecco d'Ascoli and many others. " Giotto," said his 
 friends, " is a great master in the art of painting ; he 
 is something more — he is master of seven liberal arts." 
 Accordingly we have only to look at the figures of this 
 Campanile to see that he is thoroughly imbued with 
 philosophy ; that he formed for himself an idea of 
 universal human civilization ; that, in his view, Chris- 
 tianity was only a part of it ; that Chaldea, Greece and 
 Bome could claim the half of it ; that inventors of 
 
102 THE FLOKENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 useful and beautiful arts hold the first rank in it ; that 
 he considers the life, progress and happiness of man in 
 the broad and liberal spirit of the Renaissance and of 
 modern times ; and that a free, ample and complete 
 expansion of the natural faculties is the end to which 
 the rest must be subordinated. As he thought so did 
 he act. " He was yerj studious," says Yasari, " and 
 always wandered about contemplating new objects 
 and inquiring of nature, so that he merited to be called 
 
 the disciple of nature and of no other He painted 
 
 divers landscapes full of trees and rocks, which was a 
 novelty in his day." He did much more than this, and 
 although his principal works are at Padua and at 
 Assisi, it is easy to estimate here, by the small pictures 
 in the Uffizj, in the Academy and in Santa Croce, 
 the magnitude of the revolution he effected in his art. 
 He seems to have discovered all, the ideal and nature, 
 the nobleness of figures and the lively expression of 
 sentiments. In his "Nativity," at the Academy, he 
 has caught from the hfe the action of the kneeling 
 shepherd, who, moved by profound respect, dares not 
 approach nearer. In the picture of " Christ and St. 
 Thomas" Jesus raises his arm with the most affection- 
 ate and mournful air. In the " Last Supper" Judas, 
 who is departing abashed, is a poor dwarfed specimen 
 of a miserly Jew ; while elsewhere, amongst the hands 
 and heads and in the attitudes, the draperies show a 
 refinement, order and beauty approaching the breadth 
 and dignity of the antique. " Jesus disputing with the 
 Doctors" seems an adolescent Greek. In the "Visi- 
 tation" the Virgin has a beauty, purity and meditative 
 sentiment, which Raphael may express better but not 
 feel more truly. The countenance of a magi king, in 
 the softness of the eye and of the contours, is almost 
 that of a woman. One might cite twenty others ; he 
 reveals an entire world to his contemporaries, the 
 actual world and the superior one, and it is easy to 
 
SANTA CEOCE. 103 
 
 comprehend their astonishment, admiration and de- 
 light. For the first time thej saw what man is aud 
 Avhat he ought to be. They were not repelled, as we 
 are, by the imperfections and lack of power which the 
 contrast of more complete works signalizes to us and 
 had not signalized to them. They did not notice ana- 
 tomical deficiencies, the stiff legs and arms and violent 
 attitudes badly expressed ; the apostles awkwardly 
 bending backward in the " Transfiguration," and the 
 thick necks of the " Doctors of the Temple ;" that 
 absence of relief and incompleteness of being which 
 sets before the eyes not a body but the semblance of a 
 body. We realize the defects of imagery only in con- 
 tact with painting ; Raphael in the time of Giotto 
 would have been, like Giotto, simply an image-maker. 
 We went to Santa Croce, and then to Santa Maria 
 Novella, to see the development of this art. Santa 
 Croce is a church of the thirteenth century modernized 
 in the sixteenth, half-go thic and half-classic, austere at 
 first and afterward decorated, which incongruities 
 prevent it from being either beautiful or striking. It 
 is filled with tombs : Galileo, Dante, Michael Angelo, 
 Filicaja, Battista Alberti, Machiavelli, almost all the 
 great Italians, have monuments here, most of them 
 being modern, ostentatious and cold. That of Alfieri 
 by Canova shows the hand of a sculptor of the Empire, 
 akin to David and Girodet. The only one that makes 
 any impression on the mind is that of the Countess 
 Zamoiska, a sweet, pale, emaciated face, and a portrait 
 in which the sculptor has dared to be simple and sin- 
 cere. There is no allegory ; truth in itself is sufficiently 
 impressive. Life is just departed ; we see her on her 
 couch in her invalid's costume of a cap and a long 
 robe gathered at the neck ; a sheet covers the rest, 
 leaving the forms of the feet to be divined. Such is 
 the slumber of the peaceful dead, extended after the 
 last agony. 
 
104 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 This is the church in which some small frescoes by 
 Giotto were lately discovered beneath the plaster, the 
 stories of John the Baptist, St. John the Evangelist 
 and St. Francis. Are they really by him, and has the 
 restorer been faithful ? In any event they belong to 
 the fourteenth century, and are curious. They do not 
 lack diversity ; you see a number of personages kneel- 
 ing, reclining, standing, seated, bent over and in action, 
 in short in all attitudes. The devout simplicity of the 
 middle ages is well expressed and the rendering of 
 sentiments is spirited, i^round St. Francis, who has 
 just expired, stand several monks with a cross and 
 sacred banners ; one of them, near his face, holds a 
 prayer-book, while others, in order to absorb sanctity, 
 touch the stigmata of his feet and hand, another at the 
 same time, in his monk's zeal, pressing his hand into 
 the wound on his flank. The latter, and the most 
 affecting, with hands clasped and contracted visage is 
 still speaking to him. It is an actual scene in a feudal 
 monastery. Small figures like these, however, are not 
 far removed from missal paintings, displaying but little 
 more than a contour and a few shadows ; everything is 
 reduced to a general grayish tint ; the figure is less a 
 man than an indeterminate phantom of a man. If we 
 pass on to the following generation a fresco by Taddeo 
 Gaddi, his most celebrated pupil, is no better ; the long, 
 neckless heads of the old men are disproportioned. On 
 coming down to the second generation the paintings by 
 Giottino, on the gothic tomb of Bettino dei Bardi, show 
 that art does not advance. His Christ in a red mantle 
 appearing among angels before the armed cavalier who 
 issues kneeling from his tomb, is, for the believer, a 
 striking image, but an image only. Painting, indeed, 
 seems to decline. A " Coronation of the Virgin" by 
 Giotto, this one authentic and intact, displays on a 
 golden background, between delicate ogives, four beau- 
 tiful ideal angels at the feet of a noble and beneficent 
 
GIOTTO. 105 
 
 Madonna. This search for ample and beautiful form, 
 this remote souvenir of healthy antique beauty is pecu- 
 liar to him as to Nicholas of Pisa. His successors 
 have preserved his defects — feet unable to turn round, 
 dislocated arms and bodies scarcely corporeal — without 
 reproducing the images of force, happiness and serenity 
 first descried by him and which he alone had fixed. 
 
 On entering into the spirit of his contemporaries 
 we find, on the whole, a desire to see the representation 
 not of beings but of ideas.^ Cloistral mysticism and 
 scholastic philosophy had filled their heads with ab- 
 stract formulas and exalted sentiments : if sacred and 
 sublime truth ^vas indicated to them, that sufficed; 
 physical form only partially interests them ; they do not 
 pursue it curiously and passionately for the love of it ; 
 they demand of it only a symbol and a suggestion. 
 Little does it concern them whether a wrist is fractured 
 or a neck badly set on its shoulders ; they are contem- 
 porary with Dante, and contemplate on their knees 
 this coronation of the Virgin, black like a silhouette 
 against the mystic radiance of aureoles and golden 
 backgrounds ; they feel in it the rendition of a celestial 
 vision, the visible embodiment of an intense reverie Kke 
 those with which the poet filled his Paradise. Their 
 desire is to see, not a gladiator's breast, or the living 
 anatomy of an athlete, but the Church, with its trials, 
 hopes and triumphs ; truth in its group of sciences and 
 the concourse of its discoveries ; scholastic and encyclo- 
 pedic history ; the grand and symmetrical structure of 
 doctrines and experiences which St. Thomas had just 
 provided as a shelter for all active souls and all reflec- 
 tive intellects. Understandings sublimated by theology 
 and reverie can neither desire nor produce other work. 
 
 * The analogy between tliis state of mind and that of modern 
 Germans accounts for the admiration of these pictm-es by the 
 German critics. 
 
 5^ 
 
106 
 
 THE FLOEENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 In paintiug as in poetry they are impelled to it ; they 
 are restricted to it in painting as in poesy, it being 
 only necessary to see the cloister of Santa Maria 
 Novella to realize the limitations and the exigencies of 
 such preoccupations and such necessity. Taddeo 
 Gaddi here represents philosophy, fourteen women, 
 the seven profane sciences and the seven sacred 
 sciences, all ranged in a straight line, each seated on a 
 richly ornamented gothic chair, and each with the 
 great man at her feet who acts as her interpreter; 
 above them, in a still more delicate and elaborate chair, 
 is St. Thomas the king of all sciences, trampling under 
 foot the three great heretics Arius, Sabellius and Aver- 
 roes, whilst on either side sit the prophets of the old and 
 the apostles of the new Law gravely presiding with their 
 insignia, and to whom, in the circular space around 
 their heads, are angels, symmetrically posed, bringing 
 books, flowers and flames. Subject, composition, ar- 
 chitecture and characters, the entire fresco resembles 
 the sculptured portal of a cathedral. — Quite like this 
 and still more symbolical, is the fresco by Sim one 
 Memmi, which, opposite to it, represents the Church. 
 The object here is to figure the entire christian estab- 
 lishment, and allegory is pushed even to the ludicrous. 
 On the flank of Santa Maria di Fiore, which is the 
 Church, the Pope, surrounded by cardinals and digni- 
 taries, regards a community of believers at his feet in 
 the shape of a flock of lambs reposing under the pro- 
 tection of a faithful dominican police. Some, the dogs 
 of the Lord (Domini canes) are strangling heretical 
 wolves. Others, preachers, are exhorting and making 
 converts. The procession turns, and the eye following it 
 upward, beholds the vain joys of the world, frivolous 
 dances, and, after this, repentance and penitence ; 
 farther on the celestial gates guarded by St. Peter into 
 which pass redeemed souls that have become young 
 and innocent Hke babes ; after these the throngiQg choir 
 
SIMONE MEMMI. 107 
 
 of tlie Blessed who continue on into heaven in the 
 shape of angels, while the Virgin and the Lamb are 
 surrounded by four symbohc animals, with the Father 
 on the summit of the beam rallying and drawing to 
 him the triumphant militant crowd ranged in suc- 
 cessive stories from earth to Paradise. — The two pic- 
 tures face each other and form a sort of abridgment of 
 dominican theology. But this is all, and theology is 
 not pamting any more than an emblem is a bodily 
 entity. 
 
CHAPTEE n. 
 
 THE FIFTEENTH CENTUET.— TRANSFOEMATION OF SOCIETY AND 
 n)EAS.— PUBLIC PROSPERITY AND USEFUL IN^'ENTIONS.— LUXU- 
 RIOUS TASTES.— MODERN CONCEPTIONS OF LIFE AND HAPPINESS.— 
 THE HUMANISTS.— THE POETS.— THE CARNIVAL.- A NEW CAREER 
 OPEN TO THE ARTS.— THE GOLDSMITH, THE PROMOTER OF ART.— 
 ART NO LONGER REPRESENTS IDEAS BUT CREATURES.— PERSPEC- 
 TIVE WITH PAOLO UCCELLO. 
 
 April 12. — The number of painters and the talent of 
 this school is surprising ; more than a hundred have 
 been enumerated, — Angiolo Gaddi, Giovanni da Milano, 
 Jacopo di Casentino, Buffalmaco, Pietro Laurati, and 
 all those I saw at Sienna ; the Uffizj and the Academy 
 have specimens of it ; — no positive shadows, no grada- 
 tion of tints, no relief, imperfect perspective and 
 anatomy are phases common to all of them. From 
 1300 to 1400 there is no perceptible progTcss ; even 
 according to Sacchetti the story-teller, Taddeo Gaddi, 
 one of the best among these painters, regarded art as 
 having degenerated, and as steadily degenerating every 
 day. At all events the noble pursuit of ideal forms 
 declined in order to make room for an interesting imi- 
 tation of actual life, and from Giotto to Orcagna, as 
 from Dante to Boccaccio, the spirit fell from heaven to 
 earth. And therefore, thanks to this fall, another art 
 was springing up. *' Considering," says Sacchetti, 
 " the present time and the conditions of human exist- 
 ence, so frequently visited with pestilences and sudden 
 deaths, and seeing what great destruction and what 
 vast civil and foreign wars are acclimatized here, and 
 meditating over the many individuals and families that 
 have thus sunk into poverty and misery, and with what 
 painful effort they endure the evils thus inflicted upon 
 them, and again representing to myself how many peo- 
 
CHANGES IN SOCIETY. 109 
 
 pie tliere are curious in novel tilings, and principal!}' of 
 that description of reading which is easy to compre- 
 hend, and particularly where they derive comfort 
 therefi'om, so that a little laughter may mingle with 
 their sorrows I, Franco Sacchetti, a Floren- 
 tine, have proposed to myself to write these tales." 
 Such, substantially, is the vast change then effected in 
 the public mind ; terrible municipal enmities had pro- 
 duced so much evil as to relax ancient repubhcan 
 energy. After so much destruction repose was neces- 
 sary. To antique sobriety and gravity succeed love of 
 pleasure and the quest of luxury. The belligerent 
 class of great nobles were expelled and the energetic 
 class of artisans crushed. Bourgeois rulers were to 
 rule, and to rule tranquilly. Like the Medicis, their 
 chiefs, they manufacture, trade, bank and make fortunes 
 in order to expend them in intellectual fashion. War 
 no longer fastens its cares upon them, as formerly, with 
 a bitter and tragic grasp ; they manage it through the 
 paid bands of condottieri, and these, as cunning traf- 
 fickers, reduce it to cavalcades ; when they slaughter 
 each other it is by mistake ; historians cite battles in 
 which three, and sometimes only one soldier remains on 
 the field. Diplomacy takes the place of force, and the 
 mind expands as character weakens. Through this 
 mitigation of war and through the establishment of 
 principalities or of local tyrannies, it seems that Italy, 
 like the great European monarchies, had just attained 
 to its equilibrium. Peace is partially established and 
 the useful arts germinate in all directions upon an 
 improved social soil like a good harvest on a cleared 
 and well-ploughed field. The peasant is no longer a 
 serf of the glebe, but a metayer ; he nominates his own 
 municipal magistrates, possesses arms and a commu- 
 nal treasury ; he lives in enclosed bourgs, the houses of 
 which, built of stone and cement, are large, convenient, 
 and often elegant. Near Florence he erects walls, and 
 
no 
 
 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OP ART. 
 
 near Lucca he constructs turf terraces in order to favor 
 cultiyation. Lombardy has its irrigations and rotation 
 of crops ; entire districts, now so many deserts around 
 Lombardy and Eome, are still inhabited and richly 
 productive. In the upper class the bourgeois and the 
 noble labor since the chiefs of Florence are hereditary 
 bankers and commercial interests are not endangered. 
 Marble quarries are worked at Carrara, and foundry 
 fires are Hghted in the Maremmes. We find in the 
 cities manufactories of silk, glass, paper, books, flax, 
 wool and hemp ; Italy alone produces as much as all 
 Europe and furnishes to it all its luxuries. Thus dif- 
 fused commerce and industry are not servile occupa- 
 tions tending to narrow or debase the mind. A great 
 merchant is a pacific general, whose mind expands in 
 contact with men and things. Like a military chief- 
 tain he organizes expeditions and enterprises and 
 makes discoveries ; in 1421 twelve young men of the 
 first famines set out for Alexandria in order to nego- 
 tiate with the Sultan and found foreign agencies. Like 
 the head of a state he conducts negotiations, enters into 
 diplomacy, speculates on the strength of governments 
 and on the interests of peoples ; the Medicis possess 
 sixteen banking-houses in Europe ; they bind together 
 through their business Eussia and Spain, Scotland 
 and Syria ; they possess mines of alum throughout 
 Italy, paying to the Pope for one of them a hundred 
 thousand florins per annum; they entertain at their 
 court representatives of all the powers of Europe and 
 become the councillors and moderators of all Italy. 
 In a small state like Florence, and in a country without 
 a national army like Italy, such an influence becomes 
 ascendant in and through itself ; a control over private 
 fortunes leads to a management of the public funds, 
 and without striking a blow or using violence, a private 
 individual finds himself director of the state. 
 
 How is he to use his power ? As a Eothschild of 
 
MODERN CIVILIZATION. HI 
 
 to-day would use it ; and here does the precocious con- 
 formity of this fifteenth- century civilization with our 
 own strikingly appear. Consider nowadays the pros- 
 perous and intelligent classes of Europe. How do they 
 regard life and order things ? Not according to the miH- 
 tary and heroic standard of ancient cities, or of the Ger- 
 manic tribes ; not according to the mystic and melan- 
 choly standard of the early christians, of believers in the 
 middle ages, or of protestants in the renaissance ; not 
 according to the brutal, dissolute, torpid standard of 
 half-savage races or of the great oriental empires. We 
 are not anxious to become heroes or ascetics, to be op- 
 pressed or degraded. We regard ourselves as humane 
 and cultivated, somewhat epicurean and dilletant. 
 We hold the supreme end of all effort and of human 
 progress to be a state in which foreign or civil wars 
 may become rarer and rarer ; in which order may be 
 maintained without disruption or constraint ; wherein 
 steadily increasing comforts may be widely extended 
 to each and to all ; where man's intellectual forces • 
 may be constantly applied to the amelioration of his 
 condition and to the increase of knowledge ; where, 
 finally, in the midst of civil security, industrial de- 
 velopment, lasting tranquilHty and universal harmony, 
 he may see flourish, as in a mild and equable atmos- 
 phere, the broadest spirit of investigation, the inven- 
 tions of a comprehensive and tolerant mind, the deli- 
 cate and superior appreciation of all human and 
 natural objects, philosophy, genius, and research in 
 literature, science and the arts. Such is the idea which 
 these Florentines, reared like ourselves in contact with 
 pacific and cosmopolitan industrial interests, begin like 
 ourselves to form of happiness and human culture. 
 For they are not simple voluptuaries or vulgar pa- 
 gans ; it is the whole man that they develop in man, 
 the intellect as well as the senses, and the intellect 
 above the senses. Cosmo founded an academy of 
 
112 
 
 THE FLOKENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 philosophy, and Lorenzo revived the platonic banquets. 
 Landino, his friend, composes dialogues* the characters 
 of which retiring to the convent of the Camaldoli to 
 enjoy the cool atmosphere, discuss many days in order 
 to decide which of the two, an active or a contem- 
 plative life, is superior. Pierro, the son of Lorenzo, 
 institutes a discussion on true friendship in Santa 
 Maria del Fiore, and offers a silver crown as a prize 
 to the victor. We find in the narratives of Politian and 
 Pic de la Mirandola that the princes of commerce and 
 of the state in those days enjoyed speculations of a 
 refined and superior order, lofty and broad ideas, high 
 flights of the intellect soaring in freedom and joy- 
 ousness toward elevated and distant summits. Is 
 there a greater pleasure than conversing thus in an 
 apartment adorned with rare busts, before the recovered 
 manuscripts of ancient wisdom, in choice and rich 
 language, without the restrictions of etiquette or of 
 rank, prompted by a conciliating and generous spirit 
 of investigation ? It is the fete of the intellect ; it is 
 perfect in Lorenzo's palace, and no preconceptions of 
 social reform, or asperities of religious polemics inter- 
 fere as they do later in the eighteenth century, to dis- 
 turb its poetic harmony. Instead of attacking Chris- 
 tianity they interpret it ; their tolerance is that of the 
 contemporaries of Goethe ; Marsile Ficin seems to be a 
 Schleiermacher. Educated by Cosmo he explains to 
 Lorenzo "that between philosophy and religion the 
 closest relationship prevails, that, the heart and the 
 understanding being, according to Plato, the two wings 
 by which man ascends to his celestial home, the priest 
 approaches him through the former, and the philoso- 
 pher through the latter ; that every religion contains 
 something good ; that those alone honor God truly 
 who render him incessant homage through their actions, 
 
 * Disputationes Camaldulenses, 1468. 
 
LOKENZO DI MEDICI. 113 
 
 tlieir goodness, tlieir veracity, their charity, and in 
 efforts to attain to a himinoiis intelligence." Simi- 
 larly to this he asserts with Plato that " the celestial 
 spheres are moved by spirits that turn perpetually, 
 ever seeking each other," and he develops a pagan 
 astronomy beneath a christian sky. Finally, he re- 
 solves the origin of the Word into that universal law 
 by which "each existence generates the seed of its 
 own being within itself before making itself outwardly 
 manifest" and, combining together philosophy, faith 
 and the sciences, he constructs out of these a harmoni- 
 ous edifice in which lay wisdom and revealed dogma 
 complete and purify each other, not only to furnish a 
 retreat and images for the ignorant many, but again to 
 open an aerial pathway and a boundless horizon to the 
 elite of the thoughtful. 
 
 Out of this leading trait others follow. What they 
 are in quest of is not simply pleasure, but beauty and 
 happiness, that is to say the expansion of noble as 
 well as of natural instincts. These banking magistrates 
 are liberal as well as capable. In thirty-seven j^ears 
 the ancestors of Lorenzo expend six hundred and sixty 
 thousand florins in works of charity and of public 
 utility. Lorenzo himself is a citizen of the antique 
 stamp, almost a Pericles capable of rushing into the 
 arms of his enemy the king of Naples in order to 
 avert, through personal seductions and eloquence, a war 
 which menaces the safety of his country. His private 
 fortune is a sort of public treasury, and his palace a 
 second hotel-de-ville. He entertains the learned, aids 
 them with his purse, makes friends of them, corre- 
 sponds with them, defrays the expenses of editions of 
 their works, purchases manuscripts, statues and medals, 
 patronizes promising young artists, opens to them his 
 gardens, his collections, his house and his table, and 
 with that cordial familiarity and that openness, sincerity 
 and simplicity of heart which place the protected on 
 
114 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 a footing of equality with the protector as man to man 
 and not as an inferior in relation to a superior. This 
 is the representative man whom his contemporaries 
 all accept as the accomplished -man of the century, no 
 longer a Farinata or an Alighieri of ancient Florence, 
 a spirit rigid, exalted and militant to its utmost capa- 
 city, but a balanced, moderate and cultivated genius, 
 one who, through the genial sway of his serene and 
 beneficent intellect, binds up into one sheaf all talents 
 and all beauties. It is a pleasure to see them expand- 
 ing around him. On the one hand writers are re- 
 storing and, on the other, constructing. From the 
 time of Petrarch greek and latin manuscripts are 
 sought for, and now they are to be exhumed in the 
 convents of Italy, Switzerland, Germany and France. 
 They are deciphered and restored with the aid of the 
 savants of Constantinople. A decade of Livy or a 
 treatise by Cicero, is a precious gift solicited by princes ; 
 some learned man passes ten years of travel in ransack- 
 ing distant libraries in order to find a lost book of 
 Tacitus, while the sixteen authors rescued from obli- 
 vion by the Poggios are counted as so many titles to 
 immortal fame. A king of Naples and a Duke of 
 Milan select Humanists for their chief councillors, 
 and wherever in contact with this reconquered anti- 
 quity the scholastic rust vanishes. A fine latin style 
 again flourishes almost as pure as in the times of Augus- 
 tus. On passing from the painful hexameters and 
 heavy pretentious epistles of Petrarch to the elegant 
 distich of Politian or, to the eloquent prose of Yalla, one 
 feels himseK stirred as if by an almost sensuous de- 
 light. The mouldy and abortive fruits of the middle 
 ages, soured by feudal frosts, or rotted by the close 
 atmosphere of cloisters, suddenly become ripe and of 
 delicious flavor. The fingers and the ear involuntary 
 scan the easy march of poetic dactyls and the ample 
 flow of oratorical periods. Style again becomes noble 
 
LOKENZO DI MEDICI. 115 
 
 and at the same time clear, and the health, joy and se- 
 renity diffused through antique life re-enters the human 
 mind with the harmonious proportions of language and 
 the measured graces of diction. From refined language 
 they pass to vulgar language, and the Italian is born 
 by the side of the latin. 
 
 In this renewed spring Lorenzo di Medici is the 
 first poet, and in him first appears not only the new 
 style, but the new spirit. If he imitates Petrarch in 
 his sonnets, and perpetuates the sighs of ancient 
 chivaMclove, he portrays in his pastorals, satires and 
 verses for private circulation, a refined philosophic 
 life, the graceful charms of classic landscape, the deli- 
 cate enjoyments of eye and intellect, whatever he 
 loves and those around him love, his poetry, through an 
 easy rich and simple development, testifying to a sure 
 hand, an adult century and a complete art. 
 
 Out of this rich harmony rises a joyous strain, that of 
 the epoch, and which indicates the fatal declivity to 
 which they are tending. Lorenzo himself amuses the 
 crowd and composes for it the plan and triumphs of 
 the carnival. " How beautiful is youth !" say the sing- 
 ers in his "Triumph of Bacchus and Ariadne." "But 
 youth flies ; let him who seeks happiness be happy to- 
 day, for there is no certainty in the morrow." Here, in 
 the restored paganism, shines out epicurean gaiety, a 
 determination to enjoy at any and all hours, and that 
 instinct for pleasure which a grave philosophy and 
 political sobriety had thus far tempered and restrained. 
 With Pulci, Berni, Bibiena, Ariosto, Bandelli, Aretino, 
 and so many others, we soon see the advent of volup- 
 tuous debauchery and open skepticism, and later a 
 cynical unbounded licentiousness. These joyous and 
 refined civilizations based on a worship of pleasure and 
 intellectuality — Greece of the fourth century, Provence 
 of the twelfth, and Italy of the sixteenth — were not 
 enduring. Man in these lacks some checks. After 
 
116 
 
 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 sudden outbursts of genius and creativeness lie \van- 
 ders away in the direction of license and egotism ; tlie 
 degenerate artist and thinker makes room for the sophist 
 and the dilletant.* But in this transient brilliancy his 
 beauty was charming, and following ages, less brilHant 
 externally although firmer on their foundations, cannot 
 refrain from sympathetically gazing on the harmonious 
 edifice whose elegance no e&jrt of theirs can revive and 
 whose finesse condemneci i^to fragility. 
 
 It is in this world, agaiia? become pagan, that painting 
 revives, and the new tastes ^^^is to gratify show before- 
 hand the road she is'lo icllow ; henceforth she is to 
 decorate the houses of rich merchants who love anti- 
 quity and who desire to li\^ daintily. With the direc- 
 tion the point of departure 'is already traced ; the gold- 
 smith's art furnishes it ; through the small dimensions 
 of his works the goldsmith is -^e natural ministrant to 
 private luxury ; he chases arms, plate, bedposts, chim- 
 ney-piers and the ornamentation of buffets. All 
 jeweby and gems issue from his hand, and, Hke bronze 
 and silver, he works in wood, marble, stucco and precious 
 stones ; there is nothing appertaining to the embellish- 
 ment of domestic life that does not stimulate his talent 
 or develop his art. This art moreover, through its pre- 
 cocious maturity, outran all the others. Nicholas of 
 Pisa, in the middle of the thirteenth century abeady 
 sculptures small figures which, in their gravity, beauty, 
 noble expression and solid structure, recall a virile anti- 
 quity and announce a virile renaissance. Through a 
 unique privilege sculpture, at its very first step, found 
 complete, models in the relics of Greece and Rome, and 
 at the same time complete instruments in the founder's 
 furnace and the mason's mallet ; whilst painting, poorly 
 guided and poorly provided, had to wait until the slow 
 progress of centuries could free perfect corporeal forms 
 from the disturbed visions of the middle ages, until a 
 revival of geometrical studies could teach perspective, 
 
THE goldsmith's ART. 117 
 
 and until tlie educated eye and professional experiments 
 could introduce the use of oil and gradations of color. 
 Hence it is, in tlie new race about to be run, that the 
 elder sister surpassed and instructed the younger. To- 
 ward 1400 Ghiberti, Donatello and Jacopo della Quer- 
 cia are adults, and the works they produce during the 
 twenty following years are either so full of life, so pure, 
 so expressive or so grand that art is not to go beyond 
 it. All are goldsmiths and* all issue from a workshop ; 
 Brunelleschi himself, their master, began there ; it is 
 in this shop that is formed i;he new generation of paint- 
 ers. Paolo Uccello worked in it under Ghiberti ; Maz- 
 zolino acquired in it the reputation of a skilful polisher 
 and excellent in modelling the folds of drapery. Pollai- 
 olo, the pupil of Ghiberti's father-in-law and then of 
 Ghiberti himself executed a quail on the doors of the 
 Baptistery which " only liad, to fly." Dello, Verocchio, 
 Ghirlandaio, Botticelli, Francia, and later Andrea del 
 Sarto, with all the sculptors who make their debut in 
 the goldsmith's art, Lucca della Bobbia, Cellini, Ban- 
 dinelli and — how many more might I name ! Those 
 who did not file bronze felt, nevertheless the ascendancy 
 of the workers in bronze ; Masaccio, the friend of Don- 
 atello, studied under Brunelleschi ; Leonardo da 
 Yinci in the studio of Yerocchio, modelled clay statu- 
 ettes and then draped them with wet linen in order to 
 draw them afterward and imitate their relief. Through 
 such practices and such an education, the hands thus 
 manipulating forms imbibed the sentiment of solid sub- 
 stance and carried this sentiment into painting. Hence- 
 forth the painter feels that a flat image is not a body. 
 It is essential that a figure should have something within 
 it as well as wdthout it, that behind external appearance 
 and superficial color the spectator should feel depth, ful- 
 ness, flesh, bones, middle distances, backgrounds, firm- 
 ness of posture, actual spaces and exact proportions. 
 He traces his lines, studies his perspective, undrapes 
 
118 THE FLOKENTINE SCHOOL OF AKT. 
 
 bodies, marks the muscles, feels tlieir joints, lifts tliem 
 up and dissects them, and at length, master of every 
 process by which .superficial color affords the eye the 
 sensation of living substance, he places art on its en- 
 during foundation, the exact and complete imitation of 
 nature as the artist sees nature and as nature is. 
 
 Nature, indeed, as he sees her and as she is, is 
 henceforth to interest men. Liberated from the celes- 
 tial world and brought back to the natural world, they 
 are no longer to contemplate ideas or symbols but 
 persons and existences. For them actual objects are 
 no longer a simple sign through which flashes mystic 
 thought ; they have a beauty and value of their own, 
 and the age that fixes itself on them no longer leaves 
 them in order to gaze beyond. Thus exalted and enno- 
 bled they merit representation without suppression; 
 their proportions and forms, the minutest details of as- 
 pect and situation assume importance, and the pictur- 
 esque infidelity of the artist would now be as offensive as 
 would have been formerly the theological infidelity of 
 the christian. In this imitation of sensible appearances 
 the first point is a knowledge of the dimensions of ob- 
 jects as affected b}^ remoteness ; their size varies to the 
 eye according to distance, and the truth of the whole is 
 the indispensable foundation on which is to be placed 
 the truth of detail. Paolo Uccello, instructed by the 
 mathematician Manetti, promulgates the laws of per- 
 spective and passes his life fanatically developing the 
 results of his invention. Everybody is astonished and 
 delighted at comprehending for the first time through 
 him the veritable outward phases of objects, to see a 
 vanishing ditch, avenue or the furrows of a ploughed 
 field, to measure the distance separating two figures, to 
 feel the foreshortening of a man's body reclining feet 
 foremost, to detect the innumerable and rigorously de- 
 fined changes which the slightest variation of distance 
 imparts to the forms and dimensions of a figure. But 
 
NATURE IN ART. 119 
 
 he goes further and peoples this nature of which he 
 has re-estabhshed the proportions. He conceives an 
 affection for all sorts of living creatures, and through 
 him we see entering within the circle of human sympa- 
 thy, dogs, cats, bulls, serpents, lions, " ready to bite and 
 full of haughtiness," deer and fawns " expressing velo- 
 city and fear," birds with their plumage, fish with their 
 scales, all with their own forms and peculiarities, for- 
 merly overlooked or despised, but now discovered and 
 reanimated ; they are still distinguishable in his faded 
 frescoes of Santa Maria Novella and public taste follows 
 him in the path he marked out. He paints in the 
 houses of the Medicis stories of animals, in those of the 
 Peruzzi the figures of the four elements, each with an 
 appropriate animal, a mole, a fish, a salamander and 
 a chameleon. Henceforth everybody desires to con- 
 template in his house the living images of the human 
 and of the natural world. The cornices of apartments, 
 the wood-work of bedsteads, huge chests for keeping 
 clothing are all painted with " fables from the works of 
 Ovid and other poets or with stories narrated by the 
 greek and latin historians; and similarly, jousts, hunt- 
 ing parties and tales of love .... fetes, spectacles of 
 the day and other like subjects according to each man's 
 taste." They were to be found in the dwelling of Lo- 
 renzo di Medici and also in the noblest mansions of 
 Florence. " Dello thus painted for Giovanni di Medici 
 the entire garniture of a chamber, and Donatello mod- 
 elled for him the gilded stucco of the surrounding frames. 
 The anatomists are coming to spread through the 
 houses, side by side with antique nudities, the excited 
 and muscular nudities of tlie new art, all those bold and 
 sensual effigies that are so obnoxious to the rigorism 
 of Savonarola. What a distance between this social 
 condition and that of the contemporaries of Dante, and 
 how plainly does worldly paganism in life begin with 
 picturesque paganism in art ! 
 
CHAPTEK III. 
 
 POETRAITURE OF ACTUAL FORM ; MODELLING AND ANATOMY WITH 
 ANTONIO POLLAIOLO AND YEEOCCHIO.— CREATION OF IDEAL FORM 
 WITH MASACCIO.— ORIGINALITY AND LIMITS OF ART IN THE FIF- 
 TEENTH CENTURY.— FRA FILLPPO LIPPI AND GHHiLANDAIJO.— THE 
 SURVIVORS BOTTICELLI. 
 
 What conception of man is now to be developed, and 
 what corporeal type is it wMcli everywliere repeated is 
 going to cover the walls? One there is which is to 
 reign more than haK a century and, nntil the advent of 
 Leonardo da Yinci, Eaphael and Michael Angelo, bind 
 together into one sheaf the most diverse talents. This is 
 the actual personage, the contemporary Florentine 
 figure, a body undraped as it is presented in the living 
 model, man exactly reproduced through literal imita- 
 tion and not transformed through ideal conceptions. 
 When actual life is for the first time recognized, and 
 penetrating into its structure, the admirable mechan- 
 ism of its parts is understood, this contemplation 
 suffices and nothing more is desired. There are so 
 many things in a body and in a head ! Each irregu- 
 larity, an elongation of the neck, a contraction of the 
 nose, a peculiar curl of the lip, forms a part of the indi- 
 vidual ; to improve these would be to mutilate him : 
 he would no longer be the same but another ; the re- 
 lationship which exists between this irregularity and 
 the rest is so strong that it could not be dissolved 
 without marring the whole. The personage is a unit 
 and it can only be expressed by a, portrait. Hence the 
 portraits which the frescoes of the time display in 
 lines and in groupings in the churches, and not merely 
 portraits of the face but again portraits of the body. 
 The anatomist-goldsmith PoUaiolo or Yerocchio places 
 
KNOWLEDGE OF ANATOMY. 131 
 
 a nude subject on a table, remoYes the skin and notes 
 in liis memory the projections of the bones, the expan- 
 sion of the muscles and the interlacing of the tendons, 
 and then with lights and darks, he transfers the model 
 to canvas as he would have transfixed it in bronze 
 by rehefs and depressions. If you were to say to him 
 that this clavicle was too prominent, that that section of 
 the skin ridged with muscles resembled a coil of rope, 
 that these gladiators' and centaurs' masks had the re- 
 pulsive ugliness of vulgar features convulsed and dis- 
 torted by orgie and scuffle he would not comprehend 
 you. He would point to some workman, to a passing 
 figure, in the first place to his subject, especially the 
 flayed one, and he would reply, or feel, that to em- 
 bellish life was to falsify hfe. It is just these folds of 
 the features, these dry angles of raised and intersect- 
 ing muscles which interest him ; his modeller's or 
 chaser's thumb buries itself into them and he im- 
 agines the contact ; they harbor the active, accumulated 
 force which is about to concentrate and expend itself 
 in blows ; they cannot be too boldly shown ; in his eyes 
 they constitute the entire man. Luca Signorelli, 
 having lost a beloved son, has the body stripped and 
 minutely draws every muscle in order the better to 
 preserve him in his memory. Nanni Grosso, dying in 
 a hospital, refused a crucifix offered to him demanding 
 to have one by Donatello brought to him, declaring 
 that, otherwise, "he would die unredeemed, so dis- 
 pleasing to him were the badly executed works of his 
 art." Anatomical form is so impressed on their minds 
 that the human being in whom they do not feel it 
 seems to them empty and unsubstantial. An omo- 
 plate, a muscle gives them transports of pleasure. 
 " Know," saj's Cellini later, "that the five false ribs form 
 around the navel, as the torso bends backward or for- 
 ward, a multitude of reliefs and depressions which are 
 among the principal beauties of the human body 
 
122 THE FLOKENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 Tliou wilt delight in drawing the vertebrae, for they are 
 magnificent .... Thou wilt then draw the bone placed 
 between the two hips ; it is very fine and is called the 
 
 crupper or sacrum The important point in the 
 
 art of drawing is to draw well a naked man or a naked 
 woman." This is readily apparent in their works. In 
 the " St. Sebastian" of PoUaiolo the interest of the sub- 
 ject no longer centres on the martyr but on the execu- 
 tioners. With the artist as with them the main thing 
 is to properly transfix the patient. To this end six 
 men leaning forward or bending back, all only two 
 paces off so as not to miss the mark, string or draw 
 their arbaletes, with half-open mouths through excess 
 of attention, their brows frowning as the shot is made, 
 and their legs extended and widened in order to steady 
 their hands ; the painter thought of nothing but of dis- 
 playing bodies and attitudes. His brother Piero, in a 
 similiar way at San Giminiano has put into a " Corona- 
 tion of the Virgin" four tawny emaciated saints for 
 no other purpose than to display their veins, muscles 
 and tendons. Similarly, again, Yerocchio in his 
 " Baptism of Christ" at the Academy, displays an old 
 dry wrinkled figure of Christ, an angular St. John 
 and a gruff, melancholy angel in striking contrast to 
 the handsome youth, half inclining, which his young 
 pupil Leonardo da Yinci has placed in one corner as if 
 the sign and dawn of a perfect art. Not only the anat- 
 omist, the amateur of the real, the plaster modeller of 
 the naked figure, but again the goldsmith, the chaser 
 of bronze and the cutter of marble are visible in all 
 these figures. As soon as one imagines them cast in 
 metal they appear beautiful. The draperies, in rigid 
 and broken folds, would be suitable in an ornamental 
 statuette. The action too stiff, and the attitude too 
 forced, would be proper in a statue. A small " Hercu- 
 les" by Pollaiolo in the Uffizj, with its muscles strained 
 and swollen from foot to head in order to overpower 
 
MASACCIO. 133 
 
 Antaeus whom lie clasps and is crushing, would be a 
 masterpiece if it were only in bronze. The sharp 
 elbows and knees would not be noticed, or the hard- 
 ness of its outlines and its monotonous color ; one 
 would be sensible of nothing but the torsion of the 
 fi'ame and the furious energy of the effort. In this 
 Hmited field, and under its mistress, sculpture, paint- 
 ing progresses, still rigid and fettered, and is seen to 
 take the lead but once. 
 
 It is in the hands of Masaccio, a young man born 
 with the century who died at the age of twenty-six, 
 that she takes this great step ; people at the present day 
 still go to the Brancacci chapel to contemplate this 
 isolated creator whose precocious example no one fol- 
 lowed. Not only did he die too young, but again he 
 was indifferently appreciated during his life, " to such 
 an extent," says Yasari, " that no inscription w^as placed 
 on his tomb." In order to become the head of a school 
 and direct public taste, it is essential to be not merely 
 a great artist but again a skiKul politician and a man 
 of the world. Masaccio was so poorly quahfied for 
 self-advancement that he received no commission from 
 the Medicis. "He always lived self-concentrated," 
 says Yasari, " neglecting everything else, as one who, 
 having fixed his whole mind and will on things of art, 
 
 thought little of himself and still less of others 
 
 never disposed in any respect to dw^ell on the cares and 
 
 objects of this world, not even on his own clothing 
 
 demanding money of his debtors only when pressed by 
 urgent necessities." Living in this way one may get 
 to have talent but not authority, and produce master- 
 pieces without securing preachers to extol them. 
 Among the first he studied nudity and foreshortening, 
 scrupulously observing perspective and familiarizing his 
 hand with difficulties, thoroughly imbued with the sen- 
 timent of the real, "regarding painting as no other 
 than a reproduction from life of nature's objects by 
 
124 THE FLOEENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 means of color and drawing, and continually laboring to 
 make figures as living as possible in tlie imitation of 
 truth." Besides these gifts, which he held in common 
 with his contemporaries, he had another peculiar to him- 
 self, and which carried him higher. There is a picture 
 by him in the Uffizj gallery of an old man in a cap 
 and gray robe, with a wrinkled face and a somewhat 
 mocking expression ; it is a portrait but not an ordinary 
 portrait ; he copies the real, but it is copied grandly. 
 Such is the idea, or rather a faint idea of him, which 
 one bears with him into this Brancacci chapel, covered 
 by him with paintings. All, however, are not by his 
 hand; Masolino began and Filippino completed some 
 of them : but the portions painted by Masaccio can be 
 distinguished without much trouble ; whether the three 
 artists are linked together by secret conformity of feel- 
 ing, or the latter has adhered to the cartoons of the 
 second, the work in its different dates only indicates 
 the different courses of the same spirit. 
 
 What first strikes one is that they all set out from 
 the real, that is to say, from the living individual as 
 the eyes behold him. The baptized young man whom 
 Masaccio shows naked, shivering as he comes out of 
 the water, is a contemporary bather who has taken a 
 dip in the Arno on too cold a day. And likewise his 
 Adam and Eve driven from Paradise are Florentines 
 whom he has undraped, the man with slim thighs and 
 blacksmith's shoulders, the woman with a short neck 
 and clumsy form, and both with ugly-shaped legs : they 
 are artisans or ordinary people who have not led, like 
 the Greeks, a naked existence, and whose bodies have 
 not been fashioned by gymnastics. Similarly again 
 the resuscitated child by Lippi, kneeling before the 
 apostle, has the meagre boniness and spindling limbs 
 of a modern infant. And, finally, almost all the heads 
 are portraits ; two cowled friars on the left of St. Peter 
 are monks leaving their convent. We know the names 
 
MASACCIO. 125 
 
 of the contemporaries who loaned him their heads : 
 Bartolo di Angiolino Angioli, Granacci, Soderini, Pulci, 
 Pollaiolo, Botticelli, Lippi, himself; so that this art 
 seems to have owed its being to surrounding life, as 
 plaster applied to the face repeats the modelling of the 
 forms it is subjected to. 
 
 How is it then that these personages live with a superior 
 life ? How does it happen that an exact imitation of 
 the real is not a servile imitation of it ? And how did 
 Masaccio abstract noble personages from ordinary per- 
 sonages ? Because in a multitude of observable details 
 he eliminated some of more importance than others, and 
 subordinated the rest to these. Because he distinguish- 
 ed, in the elements of the body and the head, different 
 values, and effaced or diminished the least in order to 
 augment and render prominent the greatest. Because, 
 having before him a nude man and woman when paint- 
 ing this Eve and this Adam, this baptized young man and 
 the rest, he did not adhere to the innumerable and infi- 
 nite distinctions of color and form throughout. Because 
 this or that flabby stomach, or foot spoiled by its shoe, 
 or minute protuberance of a cartilage or bone did not 
 seem to him the essential of man. And, indeed, the 
 essential is elsewhere ; it is in the solidity of the bony 
 structure, in the setting of the muscles and tendons, in 
 the present and possible action of balanced members, 
 in the universal quivering of the skin over contracting 
 flesh, in the impulse and general dilation of animal ac- 
 tivity. The nude or the flayed model only served him 
 as an indication ; he laid up details in his memory not 
 to repeat them as from a manual but to comprehend 
 their attachments and dependencies, and make their 
 functions and vitality realized. It is the same in this 
 respect with the face as with the body. That which 
 marks distinctions between contemporary heads, that 
 which distinguishes merchant from merchant, or monk 
 from monk, that which is accidental in each, the special 
 
126 
 
 THE FLOEEXTDsE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 deformity or grimace stamped by liabits of late hours 
 or of big dinners ; — what heed can I give to these ? 
 "What concerns me and is of consequence is the gTand. 
 dominant passion/the prochvity and leading intellectual 
 character, and especially whatever is energetic, de- 
 cided, peculiar to action or to thought, to calculation or 
 to resistance. What I desire to see is the grand lines 
 of physical structure as of moral structure. The rest is 
 secondary in life as in painting, and hence it is 
 that this painting although based upon the real 
 attains to the ideal. It copies indiyiduals but only 
 that which is general in them ; it leaves to heads 
 their originality and to bodies their imperfections, 
 but it makes character prominent in the heads and 
 life in the bodies. It abandons the flat and scrupu- 
 lous style in order to enter upon the broad and sim- 
 ple style. Sometimes, indeed, carried away by 
 its impetus, it fully attains to it. Several figures, 
 through theii' severe gTandeur, through the gravity of 
 their countenances, through their vigorous chins seem 
 to be antique consular characters. St. Peter heal- 
 ing the sick with his shadow walks with royal 
 energy like a Eoman accustomed to lead multitudes ; 
 Jesus paying tribute is as noble and calm as one of 
 Raphael's heads, and nothing is more beautiful than 
 these grand compositions of forty personages, all simply 
 draped, all gTave and severe, all in different attitudes, 
 all ranged around the nude infant and St. Paul who 
 raises it up, between two masses of architecture and 
 before a decorated wall, a silent assembly fi'amed upon 
 both flanks by two distinct groups, one of accidental 
 gazers, the other of kneeling men, corresponding to 
 each other and through their gTaduated harmony add- 
 ing a richer fulness to this ample symphony. 
 
 Unfortunately they did not maintain themselves on 
 the heights they reached. Artists are still too absorbed 
 by the new discovery and the minute observation of 
 
TEA FILIPPO LIPPI. 137 
 
 the real to lift their eyes upward. Their hands are not 
 free. In every art it is necessary to linger long over 
 the true in order to attain to the beautiful. The eye 
 fixing itself on an object, begins by noting details with 
 an excess of precision and fulness ; it is only later, when 
 the inventory is complete, that the mind, master of its 
 wealth, rises higher in order to take or neglect what 
 suits it. The leading master of this epoch is Fra Filippo 
 Lippi, a curious, exact imitator of actual life ; pushing 
 the finish of his works so far that, according to a con- 
 temporary, an ordinary painter might labor five years 
 day and night without succeeding in reproducing one of 
 his pictures; selecting for his figures short and round 
 heads, personages somewhat gross, virgins who are good, 
 simple lasses quite remote from the sublime, and angels 
 resembhng stout and chubby school or choir boys, 
 somewhat vulgar and obstinate. At the same time, 
 however, he aims at relief, defines contour, makes the 
 petty details of a vestment wall or halo advance and 
 recede with that vigorous and accurate drawing which 
 conveys to the eye the sensation of a corporeal object 
 definitely placed and perfect. Otherwise, he is adapt- 
 ed in morals as well as in talent, to the spirit of the 
 time, — highly popular, greatly admired, impetuous, 
 jovial, a favorite of the Medicis and protected by them 
 in his freaks ; he elopes with a nun although a monk ; 
 he jumps from a window in order to find his mistress ; 
 he is " extraordinarily lavish in love matters devoting 
 himself to them unceasingly, never stopping even up to 
 his death," at which his protectors " laugh," declaring 
 that rare geniuses must be pardoned, " because they are 
 celestial essences and not beasts of burden." 
 
 Although this imitation in which the Florentine 
 painters delight is too literal, it has, on the whole, a 
 special grace. It is necessary to visit the church of 
 Santa Maria Novella in order to appreciate its charm. 
 There, Ghhlandaijo, the master of Michael Angelo, has 
 
128 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 coYerecl the choir with his frescoes. They are poorly 
 lighted and awkwardly piled up' on top of each other ; 
 but toward midday they can be seen. They represent 
 the story of St. John the Baptist and the Virgin, the 
 figures being half the size of life. Through education 
 as well as instinct this painter, like his contemporaries, 
 is a copyist. He sketched people while passing his 
 goldsmith's shop and the resemblance of his figures 
 excited admiration. He regarded " painting as wholly 
 consisting of drawing." Man, to the artists of this 
 epoch, is still only a form ; but he had so just a sen- 
 timent of this form, and of all forms, that on copying 
 the Eoman amphitheatres and triumphal arches, he 
 drew them as accurately with the eye as if with a com- 
 pass. Thus prepared one can readily see what speak- 
 ing, striking portraits he put into his frescoes ; there 
 are twenty-one of these, representing persons whose 
 names are known, Christoforo Landini, Ficin, Politian, 
 the bishop of Arezzo, others of women — that of the 
 beautiful Ginevra de' Benci, all belonging to families 
 controlling the patronage of the chapel. The figures 
 are a little commonplace ; several of them are hard and 
 have sharp noses, and are too literal ; they lack grand- 
 eur, the painter keeping near the ground, or only cau- 
 tiously flying above the surface ; it is not the bold 
 flight of Masaccio. Nevertheless he composes groups 
 and architecture, he arranges figures in circular sanctu- 
 aries, he drapes them in a half-Florentine half-Grecian 
 costume which unites or opposes in happy contrasts and 
 gTaceful harmonies, the antique and the modern ; above 
 all this he is simple and sincere. An attractive mo- 
 ment this, a delicate aurora consisting of that youthful- 
 ness of spirit in which man first recognizes the poesy 
 of reality. At such a time he traces no line that does 
 not express a personal sentiment ; whatever he relates 
 he has experienced ; as yet there is no accepted type 
 which bodies forth in conventional beauty the budding 
 
TYPES OF REAL LIFE. 129 
 
 aspirations of his breast ; the greater liis timidity the 
 more vivacious he is, and the forms somewhat dry on 
 which he leans are the discreet confessions of a new 
 spirit which dares neither to escape from nor reserve 
 itself. One might pass hours here in contemplating 
 the figures of the women ; they are the flower of the 
 city in the fifteenth century ; we see them as they lived, 
 each with her original expression and the charming 
 irregularity of real life ; all with those half-modern 
 half-feudal Florentine features so animated and so 
 intelligent. In the "Nativity of the Yirgin" the 
 young girl in a silk skirt, who comes in on a visit, is 
 the plain demure young lady of good condition ; in the 
 "Nativity of St. John" another, standing, is a medi- 
 aeval duchess ; near her the servant bringing in fruits, 
 in statuesque drapery, has the impulse, vdvacity and 
 force of an antique nymph, the two ages and the two 
 orders of beauty thus meeting and uniting in the sim- 
 plicity of the same true sentiment. A fresh smile rests 
 on their lips ; underneath their semi-immobility, under 
 these remains of rigidity which imperfect painting still 
 leaves, one can divine the latent passion of an in- 
 tact spirit and a healthy body. The curiosity and 
 refinement of ulterior ages have not reached them. 
 Thought, with them, slumbers ; they walk or look 
 straight before them with the coolness and placidity 
 of virginal purity ; in vain will education with all its 
 animated elegancies rival the divine uncouthness of 
 their gravity. 
 
 This is why I so highly prize the paintings of this 
 age ; none in Florence have I studied more. They are 
 often deficient in skill and are always dull ; they lack 
 both action and color. It is the renaissance in its 
 dawn, a dawn gray and somewhat cool, as in the spring 
 when the rosy hue of the clouds begins to tinge a 
 pale crystal sky, and when, like a flaming dart the first 
 ray of sunshine glides over the crests of the furrows. 
 
130 
 
 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 It lasts even after great genius has arisen above the 
 horizon. Amidst the illuminated campagna one distin- 
 guishes a sort of valley in which the inanimate forms 
 of the ancient ^yle are still perpetuated. Roselli, 
 Piero di Cosimo, Credi and Botticelli do not desire to 
 leave it ; they retain dry outlines, feeble color, and 
 irregular, ungracious figures — the scrupulous imitation 
 of the real ; their development is on another side, Bot- 
 ticelli especially, through the expression of deep and 
 fervid sentiment, through tenderness and humility, 
 through the intense morbid reverie of his pensive vir- 
 gins, through frail emaciated forms, through the quiv- 
 ering delicacy of his nude Venuses, through the suf- 
 fering and writhing beauty of his precocious and nerv- 
 ous creatures, all soul and all spirit, who portend the 
 infinite but are not sure of living. There is similar 
 merit in all the masters of this period, Mantegna, Pin- 
 turicchio, Francia, Signorelli, and Perugino ; each one 
 invents for himself ; each marks out his own path and 
 follows his own inspiration. Let his path be a narrow 
 one and let him stumble occasionally, it is of little con- 
 sequence ; his steps are his own, his inspiration comes 
 from himself and not from another. Later, painters 
 are to do better, but they will be less original ; they 
 will advance faster, but in a troop ; they will go farther, " 
 but in the hands of the great masters. To my eyes 
 disciplined thought is not the equivalent of free 
 thought ; what I penetrate to in a work of art, as in 
 every other work, is the state of the soul that produced 
 it. In setting up a standard, even without reaching 
 it, one lives more nobly and more manfully than in ac- 
 quiring one he has not himself created. Henceforward 
 all talent is to be mastered by genius, and artists are 
 to become less as art becomes greater. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CONVENT OF SAN MAECO.— BEATO ANGELICO.-HIS LIFE AND 
 WORKS.— PROLONGATION OF MYSTIC SENTIMENT AND ART. 
 
 April 13. — What commotion and what travail in this 
 fifteenth century ! In the midst of this pagan tumultu- 
 ous hive there stands a tranquil convent wherein sweetly 
 and piously dreams a mystic of ancient days, Fra An- 
 gehco da Fiesole. 
 
 This convent remains almost intact ; two square 
 courts in it expose their files of small columns sur- 
 mounted by arcades, with thek little old tile roofs. In 
 one of the rooms is a sort of memorial or genealogical 
 tree, bearing the names of the principal monks who 
 have died in the odor of sanctity. Among these is 
 that of Savonarola, and mention is made of his having 
 perished through false accusation. Two cells are still 
 shown which he inhabited. Fra Angelico lived in the 
 convent before him, and paintings by his hand decorate 
 the chapter-hall, the corridors and the gray walls of 
 the cells. 
 
 He had dwelt a stranger in the world, and maintained 
 amidst fresh sensations and curiosities the innocent, 
 ravished life in God which the " Fioretti" describe. He 
 lived in a state of primitive simplicity and obedience ; 
 it is said of him that " one morning being invited to 
 breakfast by Pope Nicholas Y. his conscience forbade 
 him to eat meat without the permission of his prior, 
 never reflecting that the Pope's authority was supe- 
 rior." He refused the dignities of his order, and con- 
 cerned himseK only with prayer and penitence. " When 
 any work was required of him he would answer with 
 
133 
 
 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 singular goodness of lieart that they must go and ask 
 the prior, and if the prior wished it he would not fail 
 them." He never desired to paint any but the saints, 
 and it is narrated of him that " he never took up his 
 brushes without kneeling in prayer, and never painted 
 a Christ on the cross without his eyes being filled with 
 tears." It was his custom not to retouch or recast any 
 of his pictures, but to let them remain as they first left 
 his hand, " believing that they were as they were 
 through the will of God." We can well . understand 
 why such a man did not study anatomy or contempo- 
 rary models. His art is primitive like his life. He be- 
 gan with missals and so continued on the walls ; gold, 
 vermihon, bright scarlet, brilliant greens, the illumina- 
 tions of the middle ages display themselves on his can- 
 vases the same as on old parchments. He even some- 
 times applies them to the roofs ; an infantile piety is 
 eager to decorate its saint or idol and render it radiant 
 to excess. When he abandons small figures and com- 
 poses on a grand scale a scene of twenty personages, 
 he falters;^' his figures are bodiless. Their affecting 
 devotional expression is inadequate to animate them ; 
 they remain hieratic and stiff; all he comprehended 
 was their spirit. That which he paints understandingly, 
 and which he has everywhere repeated, are visions and 
 the visions of blessed and innocent spirits. " Grant, O 
 most sweet and loving Jesus, that I may rest in Thee 
 above all living creatures, above all health and beauty, 
 
 all glory and honor all gifts and presents that 
 
 Thou canst bestow and diffuse, all joy and gladness 
 
 that the soul can feel and can cherish In my 
 
 God do I find all things What do I desire 
 
 more, and what greater happiness? God is my all. 
 This sufficeth for him that understandeth ; and to re- 
 peat it often is sweet to him that loveth When 
 
 * A Chilst and seventeen saints in the convent of San Marco. 
 
FRA ANGELICO. 133 
 
 Thou art present all things yield delight ; but when 
 Thou art absent all is pain. Thou givest a tranquil 
 heart, then bringest perfect peace and joy."* 
 
 Such adoration as this is never unaccompanied by in- 
 ward images ; with closed eyes they are persistently fol- 
 lowed, and without effort, as in a dream. Like a mother 
 who, on finding herself alone, sees floating in memory 
 the features of a beloved son, like a chaste poet who, in 
 midnight silence, imagines and again sees the down- 
 cast eyes of his beloved, so does the heart involuntarily 
 summon up and contemplate the concourse of divine 
 figures. No object disturbs him in this peaceable con- 
 templation. Around him all actions are prescribed and 
 all objects are colorless ; day after day uniform hours 
 bring before him the same white walls, the same dark 
 lustre of the wainscoting, the same straight folds of 
 cowls and frocks, the same rustling of steps passing to 
 and fro between refectory and chapel. Delicate, inde- 
 terminate sensations vaguely arise in this monotony, 
 while tender reverie, like a rose sheltered from life's rude 
 blasts, blooms afar from the great highway clattering 
 with human footsteps. There is displayed to the eye 
 the magnificence of eternal day, and henceforth every 
 effort of the painter centres on expressing it. Glitter- 
 ing staircases of jasper and amethyst rise above each 
 other up to the throne on which sit celestial beings. 
 Golden aureoles gleam around their brows ; red, azure 
 and green robes, fringed, bordered and striped with 
 gold, flash like glories. Gold runs in threads over 
 baldachins, accumulates in embroideries on copes, ra- 
 diates like stars on tunics and gleams from tiaras, while 
 topazes, rubies and diamonds sparkle in flaming constel- 
 lations on jewelled diadems.f All is light ; it is the out- 
 
 * From the " Imitation of Jesus Christ." 
 
 f See " The Coronation of the Virgin " in the Louvre, and the 
 twelve angels around the infint Jesus in the Uffizj. 
 
134 THE FLOEENTINE SCHOOL OF AKT. 
 
 burst of mystic illumination. Througli this prodigali- 
 ty of gold and azure one tint prevails, that of the sun 
 and of paradise. This is not common daylight ; it is too 
 brilliant; it effaces the brightest hues, it envelops 
 forms on all sides ; it weakens and reduces them to mere 
 shadows. In fact the soul is everything ; ponderable 
 matter becomes transfigured ; its relief is no longer per- 
 ceptible, its substance having evaporated ; nothing re- 
 mains but an ethereal form which swims in azure and 
 in splendor. At other times the blessed approach para- 
 dise over luxuriant meadows strewn with red and white 
 flowers, and under beautiful blooming trees; angels con- 
 duct them, and, hand in hand, they form fraternally a cir- 
 cle ; the burden of the flesh no longer oppresses them ; 
 their heads starred with rays they glide through the 
 air up to the flaming gate from which issues a golden 
 illumination ; Christ, aloft, within a triple row of an- 
 gels pressed together like flowers, smiles upon them 
 beneath his aureole. Such are the dehghts and the 
 radiance that Dante has portrayed. 
 
 His personages are worthy of their situation. Al- 
 though beautiful and ideal his Christ, even in celestial 
 triumph, is pale, pensive and slightly emaciated ; he 
 is the eternal friend, the somewhat melancholy consoler 
 of the "Imitation," the poetic merciful Lord as the 
 saddened heart imagines him ; he is not the over-heal- 
 thy figure of the renaissance painters. His long curling 
 tresses and blonde beard sweetly surround his features ; 
 sometimes he smiles faintly, while his gravity is never 
 dissociated with affectionate benignity. At the day of 
 judgment he does not curse ; only on the side of the 
 damned his hand falls, while on the right, toward the 
 blessed, toward those whom he loves, his full regards 
 are turned. Near him the Virgin, kneeling with down- 
 cast eyes, seems to be a young maiden that has just 
 communed. Occasionally her head is too large as is 
 
VISIONS. 133 
 
 common witli the inspired ; her shoulders are narrow 
 and her hands too small ; the spiritual, inward life, too 
 highly developed, has reduced the other ; the long blue 
 mantle wrought in gold in which she is wholly envel- 
 oped, scarcely allows it to be supposed that she has a 
 body. No one can imagine before having seen it such 
 immaculate modesty, such virginal candor ; by her side 
 Raphael's virgins are merely simple vigorous peasant 
 girls. And the other figures are of the same order. 
 Every expression is based on two sentiments, the in- 
 nocence of the calm spirit preserved in the cloister, 
 and the rapture of the blessed spirit that sees God. 
 The saints are portraits, but refined and beatified ; ce- 
 lestial transfiguration eliminates from the body as 
 from the soul the ideal portion concealed and 
 transformed by the grossness of terrestrial being. 
 No wrinkles appear on the countenances of the aged ; 
 they bloom afresh under the touch of eternal youth. 
 No traces of phj'sical austerity are visible ; they have 
 entered into the realm of pure felicity. The features 
 of the blessed are in repose, we feel that they rest pas- 
 sive suspended in ecstasy ; to move, to disturb a fold of 
 their drapery would endanger some part of the vision ; 
 they turn their eyes to the heights above without bend- 
 ing their bodies ; they are wrapt in meditation in order the 
 better to enjoy their beatitude ; they speak like the dis- 
 ciples of the Evangelist, " Lord, it is good for us to be 
 here ; if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles ; 
 one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias." A 
 few, the disciples, seem to be juvenile choristers, monas- 
 tic novices imbued with a spirit of veneration, and 
 timid. On seeing the infant Jesus they give way to a 
 movement of infantile sprightliness and then, fearful of 
 having done something wrong, hesitate and draw back. 
 There are no violent or eager emotions in this world ; all is 
 partially veiled or arrested midway by the tranquillity 
 
136 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 or the obedience of tlie cloister. But tlie most charm- 
 ing figures are those of the angels. We see them kneel 
 down in silent rows around thrones or press together 
 in garlands in the azure. The youngest are amiable, 
 candid children, with minds unruffled by a suspicion of 
 evil ; they do not think much ; each head, in its golden 
 circle, smiles and is happy ; it will smile forever, and 
 this is its entire life. Others with flamboyant wings, 
 hke birds of paradise, play on instruments or sing, and 
 their countenances are radiant. One of them, raising 
 his trumpet to put it to his lips, stops as if surprised by 
 a resplendent vision. This one with a vioHncello to 
 his shoulder seems to muse over the exquisite tones of 
 his own instrument. Two others with joined hands 
 seem to be contemplating and adoring. One, quite 
 youthful, with the full figure of a young girl, bends for- 
 ward, as if to listen before striking her cymbal. To the 
 harmony of tones must be added the harmony of col- 
 ors. Tints do not increase or decrease in strength and 
 intermingle as in ordinary painting. Every vestment 
 is of one color, a red alongside of blue, a bright green 
 alongside of a pale purple, an embroidery of gold placed 
 on a dark amaranth, like the simple, sustained strains 
 of an angelic melody. The painter delights in this ; he 
 cannot find colors for his saints pure enough or orna- 
 ments for them of sufficient precioiisness. He forgets 
 that his figures are images ; he bestows upon them the 
 faithful care of a believer, of a worshipper ; he embroi- 
 ders their robes as if they were real ; he covers their 
 mantles with filagree as fine as the finest work of the 
 goldsmith ; he paints on their copes small and perfect 
 pictures ; he applies himself to delicately unfolding 
 their beautiful light tresses, to arranging their curls, to 
 the proper adjustment of the folds of their tunics, to an 
 accurate delineation of the round monastic tonsure ; he 
 enters into heaven with them in order to love and to 
 serve them. Era Angelico is the last of the mystic 
 
CELESTIAL TYPES. 
 
 137 
 
 flowers. The society that surrounded him and of which 
 he knew nothing, ended in taking an opposite direction, 
 and, after a short respite of enthusiasm, proceeded to 
 burn his successor, a Dominican like himself and the 
 last of the christians, Savonarola. 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE UFFIZJ COLLECTION.— THE TRIBUNE.— ANTIQUES, AND RENAIS- 
 SANCE SCULPTURE.— DIFFERENCE BETWEEN GREEK ART AND 
 THE ART OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.— MICHAEL ANGELO.— THE 
 MEDICI CHAPEL, 
 
 What can be said of a gallery containing thirteen 
 hundred pictures ? For my own part I abstain. Exam- 
 ine catalogues and collections of engTayings, or rather 
 come here yourself. The impressions borne away from 
 these gTand storehouses are too diverse and too numer- 
 ous to be transmitted by the pen. Observe this, that 
 the Uffizj is a universal depot, a sort of Louvre con- 
 taining paintings of all times and schools, bronzes, 
 statues, sculptures, antique and modern terra-cottas, 
 cabinets of gems, an Etruscan museum, artists' por- 
 traits painted by themselves, twenty-eight thousand 
 original drawings, four thousand cameos and ivories 
 and eighty thousand medals. One resorts to it as to a 
 library ; it is an abridgment and a specimen of every- 
 thing. Add to this that one goes also to other places, 
 to the Palazzo-Yecchio, to the Palazzo Corsini, to the 
 Palazzo Pitti. A mass of notes accumulate, but I can 
 extract nothing from them. It seems to me that I have 
 completed and corrected or modified some former ideas ; 
 but completions, corrections and modifications are not 
 to be transcribed. 
 
 The simplest thing, therefore, is to leave study there 
 and promenade for pleasure. We ascend the great 
 marble staircase, pass the famous antique boar and 
 enter the long horseshoe corridor filled with busts and 
 tapestried with paintings. Visitors, about ten o'clock 
 in the morning, are few ; the mute custodians remain 
 in their corners ; you seem to be really at home. It 
 
THE UFFIZJ GALLERY. 139 
 
 all belongs to you, and what convenient possessions ! 
 Keepers and majordomos are here to keep things in 
 order, well dusted and intact : it is not even necessary 
 to give orders ; matters go on of themselves without 
 jar or confusion, nobody giving himself the slightest 
 concern ; it is an ideal world such as it ought to be. 
 The light is excellent ; bright gleams from the windows 
 fall on some distant white statues, on the rosy torso 
 of a woman which comes out living from the shadowy 
 obscurity. Beyond, as far as the eye can see, marble 
 gods and emperors extend away in files up to the win- 
 dows through which flickers the light ripple of the 
 Arno with the silver}^ swell of its crests and eddies. 
 You enter into the freedom and sweet repose of ab- 
 stract life ; the will relaxes, the inner tumult subsides ; 
 one feels himseK becoming a monk, a modern monk. 
 Here, as formerly in the cloisters, the tender inward 
 spirit, chafed by the necessities of action, insensibly 
 revives in order to commune with beings emancipated 
 from life's obligations. It is so sweet no longer to be ! 
 Not to be is so natural ! And how peaceful the realm 
 of human forms withdrawn from human conflict ! The 
 pure thought which follows them is conscious that its 
 illusion is transient : it participates in their incorporeal 
 serenity, and reverie, lingering in turn over their vo- 
 luptuousness and violence, brings back to it plenitude 
 without satiety. 
 
 On the left of the corridors open the cabinets of 
 precious things, — the Niobe hall, that of portraits, that 
 of modern bronzes, each with its special group of treas- 
 ures. You feel that you have a right to enter, that great 
 men are awaiting you. A selection is made amongst 
 them ; you re-enter the Tribune : five antique statues 
 form a circle here, — a slave sharpening his knife ; two 
 interlocked wrestlers whose muscles are strained and 
 expanded ; a charming Apollo of sixteen years whose 
 compact form has all the suppleness of the freshest 
 
140 THE FLOBENTINE SCHOOL OF AKT. 
 
 adolescence ; an admirable Faun instinct with tlie ani- 
 mality of his species, unconsciously joyous and dan- 
 cing with all his might ; and, finally, the " Yenus de 
 Medici," a slender young girl with a small delicate 
 head, not a goddess like her sister of Milo, but a per- 
 fect mortal and the work of some Praxiteles fond of 
 hefairce, at ease in a nude state and free from that some- 
 what mawkish delicacy and bashful coquetry which its 
 copies, and the restored arms with their thin fingers by 
 Bernini, seem to impose on her. She is, perhaps, a 
 copy of that Yenus of Cnidus of which Lucian relates 
 an interesting story ; you imagine while looking at her, 
 the youths' kisses pressed on the marble lips, and the 
 exclamations of Charicles who, on seeing it, declared 
 Mars to be the most fortunate of gods. Around the 
 statues, on the eight sides of the wall, hang the mas- 
 terpieces of the leading painters. There is the " Ma- 
 donna of the Goldfinch" by Raphael, pure and candid, 
 like an angel whose soul is a bud not yet in bloom ; 
 his " St. John," nude, a fine youthful form of fourteen, 
 healthy and vigorous, in which the purest paganism 
 lives over again ; and especially a superb head of a 
 crowned female, radiant as a summer noonday, with 
 fixed and earnest gaze, her complexion of that power- 
 ful southern carnation which the emotions do not 
 change, where the blood does not pulsate convulsively 
 and to which passion only adds a warmer glow, a sort 
 of Eoman muse in whom will still prevails over intel- 
 lect, and whose vivacious energy reveals itself in repose 
 as well as in action.^ In one corner a tall cavalier by 
 Yan Dyck, in black and with a broad frill, seems as 
 grandly and gloriously proud in character as in propor- 
 tions, primarily through a well-fed body and next 
 through the undisputed possession of authority and 
 
 * This picture is called " the Fornarina." It is not however the 
 Fomarina, and it is not certain that Raphael painted it. 
 
Titian's venus. 141 
 
 command. Tliree steps more and we come to the 
 "Fliglit into Egypt," by Correggio, the Virgin with a 
 charming spirited face wholly suffused with inward 
 light in which the purity, archness, gentleness and 
 wildness of a young girl combine to shed the tenderest 
 grace and impart the most fascinating allurements. 
 Alongside of this a "Sibyl" by Guercino, with her 
 carefully adjusted coiffure and drapery, is the most 
 spiritual and refined of sentimental poetesses. 
 
 I pass twenty others in order to reserve the last look 
 for Titian's two Yenuses. One, facing the door, re- i^ 
 clines on a red velvet mantle, an ample vigorous torso 
 as powerful as one of Eubens' Bacchantes, but firmer — 
 an energetic and vulgar figure, a simple, strong unin- 
 tellectual courtezan. She Ues extended on her back, 
 caressing a Uttle cupid naked like herself, with the va- 
 cant seriousness and passivity of soul of an animal in 
 repose and expectant. The other, called " Venus with 
 the Dog," is a patrician's mistress, couched, adorned 
 and ready. We recognize a palace of the day, the 
 alcove fitted up and colors tastefully and magnificently 
 contrasted for the pleasure of the eye ; in the back- 
 ground are servants arranging clothes ; through a win- 
 dow a section of blue landscape is visible ; the master 
 is about to arrive. Nowadays w^e devour pleasure 
 secretly Hke stolen fruit ; then it was served up on gold- 
 en salvers and people sat down to it at a table. It is 
 because pleasure was not vile or bestial. This woman 
 holding a bouquet in her hand in this grand columnar 
 saloon has not the vapid smile or the wanton and mali- 
 cious air of an adventuress about to commit a bad 
 action. The calm of evening enters the palace through 
 noble architectural openings. Under the pale green of 
 the curtains hes the figure on a white sheet, slightly 
 flushed with the regular pulsation of life, and devel- 
 oping the harmony of her undulating forms. The head 
 is small and placid ; the soul does not rise above the 
 
 ! 
 
142 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 corporeal instincts ; hence she can resign herself to 
 them without shame, while the poesy of art, luxury and 
 security on all sides comes to decorate and embellish 
 them. She is* a courtezan, but also a lady ; in those 
 days the former did not efface the latter ; one was as 
 much a title as the other and, probably, in demeanor, 
 affection and intellect one was as good as the other. 
 The celebrated Imperia had her tomb in the church of 
 San Gregorio, at Eome, with this inscription : " Impe- 
 ria, a Eoman courtezan worthy of so great a name, fur- 
 nished an example to men of perfect beauty, lived 
 twenty-six years and twelve days, and died in 1511, 
 August 25." Two centuries after this President De 
 Brosses, at Venice, on being directed to a certain ad- 
 dress found a lady so noble in her manner, so dignified 
 in her bearing and so refined in her language that he 
 stammered out an apology ; he was about to -withdraw, 
 aghast at his mistake, when she smiled and bade him 
 be seated. 
 
 On passing from the Italian into the Flemish galle- 
 ries one is completely turned around : here are paint- 
 ings executed for merchants content to remain quietly 
 at home eating good dinners and speculating over the 
 profits of their business ; moreover in rainy and muddy 
 countries dress has to be cared for, and by the women 
 more than the men. The mind feels itself contracted 
 on entering the circle of this well-to-do domestic life ; 
 such is the impression of Corinne when from liberal 
 Italy she passes to rigid and dreary Scotland. And 
 yet there is a certain picture, a large landscape by Rem- 
 brandt, which equals and surpasses all ; a dark sky 
 bursting with showers amongst flocks of screaming 
 crows ; beneath, is an infinite stretch of country as des- 
 olate as a cemetery ; on the right a mass of barren 
 rocks of so mournful and lugubrious a tint as to attain 
 to the sublime in effect. So is it with an andante of 
 Beethoven after an ItaHan Opera. 
 
GREEK REPOSE. 
 
 143 
 
 April 14. — The TJffizj. — A visit to tlie antiques and 
 sculptures of the renaissance. The relationship of 
 the two ages is immediately recognized. Both are 
 equally pagan, that is to say wholly occupied with the 
 present and physical life. Notwithstanding this they 
 are separated by tw^o notable differences ; the antique 
 is more calm, and, on coming down to the best period of 
 Greek sculpture this calmness is extraordinary ; it is 
 that of animal life, almost vegetative ; man lives for 
 the sake of living and desires nothing beyond. We 
 find in him, indeed, at the first aspect, an apathetic air, 
 or at least dull, approaching melancholy, in contrast 
 with the constant feverishness and profound elabora- 
 tion of modern heads. 
 
 The renaissance sculptor, on the other hand, imi- 
 tates the real more subtly, and aims more at expression. 
 Contemplate the statues of Yerocchio, of Francavilla, 
 of Bandinelli, of Cellini, and especially those of Dona- 
 tello. His "St. John the Baptist," emaciated by fast- 
 ing, is a skeleton. His "David," so elegant, so well 
 posed, has angular elbows and arms of extreme meagre- 
 ness ; individual character, passionate emotion, par- 
 ticular situation, intense aylU and originahty peer out 
 strongly in their works as in a portrait. They appre- 
 ciate animation more than harmony. 
 
 Hence it is, in sculpture at least, that the only mas- 
 ters who perfectly present the sentiment of beauty are 
 the Greeks. After them all is deviation ; no other art 
 has been able to put the soul of the spectator in so just 
 an equilibrium. This is apparent on strolling an hour 
 through this long gallery. The mind is suddenly tran- 
 quillized ; it seems to have recovered its firmness. The 
 heads of empresses are rapidly passed, almost all spoiled 
 by an overloaded and pretentious coiffure ; a glance 
 is bestowed on the busts of the emperors, interesting to 
 a historian and each of which is the summary of a reign 
 and a character ; but one stops before the statues of 
 
144 
 
 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 athletes, of the " Discobulus," of the small " Bac- 
 chante," and especially of the gods, " Mercury," " Ye- 
 nus " and the two ApoUos. Muscles are obliterated ; 
 the trunk is prolonged without depressions or projec- 
 tions into the arms and thighs ; there is no ef- 
 fort. How strange this term in our world where one 
 encounters nothing but effort ! The reason is that, since 
 the Greeks, man, in developing himself, has become 
 distorted ; he has become distorted all on one side 
 through the predominance of cerebral activity. Nowa- 
 days he desires too much, he aims too high and has 
 too much to do. In those days after a youth had 
 exercised in the gymnasium, when he had learned 
 a few hymns and could read Homer, when he had list- 
 ened to orators in the agora and to philosophers in the 
 portico, his education was finished ; the man was ac- 
 complished and he began life complete. A rich young 
 Englishman of to-day, of good family and calm in blood, 
 who has rowed, boxed and raced a good deal, who pos- 
 sesses healthy and precise ideas, who deliberately lives 
 in the country, is, in these days, the least imperfect imi- 
 tation of the young Athenian ; he often possesses the 
 same unity of feature and the same tranquil regard. 
 But this does not last long. He is forced to imbibe too 
 much knowledge, and too positive knowledge : lan- 
 guages, geography, political economy, Greek verses at 
 Eton, mathematics at Cambridge, newspaper statistics 
 and documents, besides the Bible and ethics. Our civ- 
 iHzation overwhelms us ; man staggers under the pres- 
 sure of his ever-increasing task ; the burden of inven- 
 tions and ideas which he easily bore in infancy is no 
 longer proportioned to his strength. He is obliged to 
 shut himself up in a little province and become special. 
 One development excludes others ; he must be either 
 laborer or student, politician or philosopher, manufac- 
 turer or man of family and confine himself to one thing 
 at the expense of all the rest ; he would be inadequate 
 
THE SPIPJT OF MODERN AET. 145 
 
 were lie not mutilated. Hence tlie loss in liim of calm- 
 ness, and the loss in art of harmony. The sculptor, 
 hov/ever, no longer addresses himself to a religious civic 
 community, but to a crowd of isolated amateurs ; he 
 ceases to act in the capacity of priest and of citizen, and 
 is only a man and an artist. He dwells on the anatomi- 
 cal details that are to arrest connoisseurs, and on the 
 exaggerated expression which is comprehended by the 
 ignorant. He is a sort of expert goldsmith desirous of 
 gaining and of retaining pubhc attention. He executes 
 simply a work of art and not a work of national art. 
 The spectator pays him in praise and he pays the spec- 
 tator by pleasing him. Compare the " Mercury" of John 
 of Bologna with the young Greek athlete near him. 
 The former, springing on his toe is a tour deforce which 
 is to do honor to the artist, and prove an attractive 
 spectacle to fix the eyes of visitors. The young Athe- 
 nian, on the contrary, who says nothing, who does noth- 
 ing, who is contented to live, is an effigy of the city, a 
 monument of its Olympic victories, an example for all the 
 youths of its gymnasia ; he is of service to education 
 as the statue of a god is of service to religion. Neither 
 the god nor the athlete need be interesting ; it suf- 
 fices for them to be perfect and tranquil ; they are not 
 objects of luxury, but instruments of public welfare ; 
 they are commemorative objects and not pieces of fur- 
 niture. People respect and profit by them ; they do not 
 use them for their diversion nor as material for criticism. 
 Likewise, again, the marble " David" of Donatello, so 
 proudly erect, draped in so original a manner, so 
 haughtily grave, is not a hero or a legendary saint, but 
 a pure creation of the imagination ; the artist fashions 
 a pagan or a christian according to order and his sole 
 concern is to please people of taste. Consider, at last, 
 Michael Angelo himself, his " Dead Adonis" with head 
 inclined upon his bent arm, and the " Bacchus" who 
 raises his cup and half opens his mouth as if to drink a 
 
 6 
 
146 
 
 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 health — two admirable figures, so natural and almost 
 antique. "With him, however, as with his contempora- 
 ries, action and interest predominate ; he, no more than 
 they, contents himself with representing a simple exist- 
 ence calm in its own repose. Through this great trans- 
 formation of human life, thus disjointed and dissevered 
 in its various organs, the ideal model, public sentiment 
 and the artistic spirit have radically changed, and 
 that which henceforth the new art typifies is individual 
 personality, striking peculiarities, uncontrollable pas- 
 sion, diversities of action, instead of the abstract type, 
 of the general form, of harmony and of repose. 
 
 We follow out this idea and leave the Uffizj to see 
 other statues. "We enter the Palazzo-Yecchio. Its 
 court is supported by columns entirely covered with 
 ornamentation and with small figures, the rich and 
 brilliant invention of the renaissance. In the middle 
 of the court stands a fountain the perfection of ele- 
 gance, (this term always recurs to one in Florence,) 
 and, erect on its top, Yerocchio has placed a charming, 
 animated statue of a child in bronze. You ascend to 
 the great Council-chamber painted by Yasari with 
 large, insipid frescoes ; and around it you see a range 
 of marble statues, the " Adam" and " Eve" of Bandi- 
 nelli, both of them meagre and real ; " Yirtue triumph- 
 ant over Yice," by John of Bologna, a grand, sensual 
 imperious fellow, entirely nude, with a singularly dis- 
 torted thigh ; a youthful victor standing over a pris- 
 oner, by Michael Angelo, with an elongated body and 
 a very small head, two traits which his school is to 
 copy literally, and finally exaggerate. The same char- 
 acter reappears everywhere, that of beauty centred in 
 exact imitation or in modifications of expression ; it is, 
 however, a new field on which a whole world may be 
 built. 
 
 In order to comprehend this it is necessary to visit 
 the church of San Lorenzo, filled with the works of 
 
THE MEDICI CHAPEL. 
 
 147 
 
 Donatello, Verocchio and Michael Angelo. The church 
 is by Briinelleschi and the chapel by Michael Angelo, 
 one being a sort of temple with a flat ceiling sustained 
 by Corinthian columns, and the other a square structure 
 surmounted by a cupola, the former being too classic 
 and the latter too cold ; — one hesitates before writing 
 these two words ; and yet nothing must be kept back 
 even in the presence of such great names. The two 
 pulpits however, by Donatello, the bronze bas-reliefs 
 which cover the marble, so many natural and impas- 
 sioned little figures, and especially the frieze of nude 
 cherubs playing and running along the cornice, and the 
 charming balcony above the organ so delicately wrought 
 that it seems to be of ivory, with its niches, shells, col- 
 umns, animals and foliage — how graceful and what 
 taste ! And what ornamentalists they were, these re- 
 naissance sculptors ! Thereupon you enter the Medici 
 chapel and contemplate the colossal figures which 
 Michael Angelo has placed on their tombs. Nothing 
 in modern statuary is equal to them, and the noblest 
 antique figures are not superior; they are different, 
 which is all one can say. Phidias executed serene 
 gods and Michael Angelo suffering heroes ; but suffering 
 heroes are equal to serene gods ; it is the same 
 magnanimity, here exposed to the miseries of the 
 world, there emancipated from the miseries of the 
 world ; the sea is as grand in tempest as in repose. 
 
 Every one ha-s seen a drawing or a plaster cast of 
 these statues ; but, unless on this spot, no one has 
 seen their soul. It is essential to have felt, almost 
 through contact with them, the colossal and superhu- 
 man massiveness of these grand elongated forms whose 
 muscles speak to you ; the hopeless nudity of these 
 virgins of which we see only the spirit, the grief and the 
 race, without the mind of itself being capable of enter- 
 taining any other sentiment but fear and compassion. 
 Their blood is different from ours ; a fallen Diana, cap- 
 
148 THE FLOEENTINE SCHOOL OE AET. 
 
 tive in the hands of the barbarians of the Taurica, 
 would possess this visage and this form. 
 
 One of them, h9;lf-reclining, awakes and seems to be 
 shaking off a fearful dream. The head is bowed, the 
 brow frowning, the eyes hollow, and the cheeks ema- 
 ciated. How much misery had to be endured in order 
 that such a form might feel the burden of life ! Its 
 indestructible beauty has not succumbed, and yet in- 
 ward suffering begins to reveal its corroding imprint. 
 The superb animal vitality, the vivacious energy of the 
 trunk and Hmbs are intact, but the spirit falters ; she 
 lifts herself painfully on an arm, and beholds the light 
 with regret. How sad to raise the eyehds, and to feel 
 that once more must be borne the burden of a human 
 day! 
 
 By her side a man, seated, turns half round with a 
 sombre air like one overcome, irritable and expectant. 
 What an effort, and what writhing when the mass of 
 muscles furrowing this torso swells and strains in order 
 to clutch an enemy 1 On the other tomb an unfinished 
 captive, his head half disengaged from its stone ma- 
 trix, the arms rigid, the body contorted, raises his shoul- 
 der with a formidable gesture. I see there all of 
 Dante's figures, Ugolino gnawing the skull of his 
 enemy, the damned half springing from their flaming 
 sepulchres ; but these are not the cursed ; they are 
 grand wounded spirits justly indignant at slavery. 
 
 A grand female form extended is sleeping ; an owl 
 in front of it is placed at its feet. This is the sleep 
 of exhaustion, the dull lethargy of an overtaxed being 
 who has sunk down and rests inert. It is called Night, 
 and Michael Angelo has written on the pedestal, " Sleep 
 is sweet, and yet more sweet is it to be of stone while 
 misery and wrong endure. Not to see, not to feel, is 
 my joy. So wake me not ! Ah, speak in whispers !" 
 These lines are not necessary to make the sentiment 
 which guided his hand understood ; his statues tell their 
 
MICHAEL ANGELO'S FIGURES. 1^9 
 
 own story. His own Florence had just been van- 
 quisliecl; in vain had he fortified and defended it; 
 after a siege of a year Pope Clement had captured it. 
 The last free government was destroyed. Mercenaries 
 broke into the houses killing its best citizens. Four 
 hundred and sixty emigres were condemned to death 
 as outlaws, or read proclamations throughout Italy 
 fixing a price on their heads. They had ransacked 
 Michael Angelo's dwelling in order to seize and carry 
 him aw^ay ; had not a friend concealed him he too 
 would have perished. He had passed long days con- 
 fined in this asylum, knowing that death was taking 
 the noblest lives and hovering around his own. If the 
 Pope afterward spared him it was only through family 
 interest, and in order that he might finish the Medici 
 chapel. He shut himself up in it ; he devoted himself 
 to it passionately ; he tried to forget in it, in intellectual 
 strife and in weariness of hand, the ruin of vanquished 
 liberty, the agony of a down-trodden country, the de- 
 feat of outraged justice, the tumult of suppressed re- 
 sentments, of his impotent despair and of his devour- 
 ing humiliations, and it is this indomitable rebellion of 
 his soul, sternly confronting oppression and servitude, 
 wdiich he has here put into his heroes and his virgins. 
 Above them, the mute Lorenzo, silent and tragic be- 
 neath his warrior's casque, with his hand on his lip, is 
 about to arise. A king sits in this attitude when, in the 
 midst of his army, he orders the execution of some 
 judicial act like the destruction of a city. Frederic 
 Barbarossa must have appeared thus when he caused 
 Milan to be ploughed up. 
 
 Near the door is an admirable Yirgin, unfinished, 
 supporting her child on her hip ; her tall draped form 
 is of wonderful nobleness ; she leans over and her hol- 
 low flank makes a peculiar curve following the folds of 
 her robe ; her thin face wears an expression of benev- 
 olent sadness. Like her reclining sisters she is of a 
 
150 THE FLOEENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 more suffering and more exalted race than the human 
 race ; all are beings disproportioned to things below, 
 bruised and tempfest-tossed in life's career, encounter- 
 ing at long intervals respites of calm and of sublime 
 reverie. 
 
 Between his tranquil " Pieta" of St. Peter's at Rome 
 and this grandiose Virgin with such a subtle and mel- 
 ancholy spirit, what a distance ! Add to these the 
 " Moses" and the ceiling of the Sistine chapel. How 
 the man has grown and suffered ! How he has formed 
 and revealed his original conception of life ! This is 
 modern art, wholly personal and manifesting the indi- 
 vidual, the artist himself, in opposition to antique art 
 which is wholly impersonal and unfolding a general 
 idea expressive of the city. One finds the same differ- 
 ence between Homer and Dante, between Sophocles and 
 Shakespeare ; Art becomes more and more a confession, 
 that of an individual soul, expressing itself and reveal- 
 ing itself fully to a dispersed and indefinite assembly 
 of other souls. Thus was Beethoven, the most mod- 
 ern and grandest of all musicians. — The consequence 
 is that an artist must be a personality; if not, he 
 has nothing to say. An Italian remarked to me at 
 Sienna ; " Formerly artists painted with the passions 
 they had ; now they paint those they think they have. 
 This is why after having given us men they now give 
 us phantoms of men." 
 
CHAPTEE VL 
 
 THE PITTI PALACE.— THE MEDICI MONARCHY.-MANNERS AND CUS- 
 TOMS OF THE COURT.— PROMENADES AlVIONG THE PAINTERS.— 
 ANDREA DEL SARTO AND ERA BARTOLOMEO.-THE SPIRIT AND 
 INFLU'ENCE OF FLORENCE IN ITALY. 
 
 I DOUBT if there is a palace in Europe more monu- 
 mental than the Pitti Palace. I have not seen one that 
 leaves such a simple, grandiose impression. Placed 
 on an eminence its entire outline appears in profile 
 against the clear blue sky, its three distinct stories 
 superposed one above the other like three regular 
 blocks, the narroAvest on the top of the broadest. Two 
 terraces project crosswise on the two flanks adding to 
 it another mass. But wdiat is really unique and carries 
 to an extreme the grandiose serenity of the edifice is 
 the vastness of the material of which it is built. It is 
 not stone, but fragments of rock and almost sections 
 of mountains. Some blocks, especially those support- 
 ing the terraces, are as long as five men. Scarcely 
 hewn out, rugged and dark, they preserve their original 
 asperity, as would a mountain if torn from its founda- 
 tions, broken into fragments and erected on a new site 
 by Cyclopean hands. 
 
 There is no ornamentation on the facade ; a long 
 balustrade simply runs along the top, intersecting the 
 motionless azure. Colossal round arcades support the 
 windows, and each of their vertebrae forms a projection 
 with its primitive irregularities, as if the skeleton of an 
 old giant. 
 
 Inside is a square court like that of the Farnese pal- 
 ace, surrounded by four architectural masses as austere 
 and as vast as the exterior. Here also ornament is 
 
152 THE FLORENTINE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 wanting, and designedly. The entire decoration con- 
 sists of a lining of doric columns upon whicli are ionic 
 columns and, over these, corinthian columns. But 
 these piles of round blocks, rising one above another 
 or alternating with square blocks equal, in the force of 
 their massiveness and the sharpness of their angles, 
 the ruggedness and energy of the rest. Stone reigns 
 supreme here ; the eye seeks for nothing beyond vari- 
 ety of reliefs and substantial position ; it seems as if it 
 subsisted in and for itself, as if art and man's will had 
 not intervened and as if there were no room for fancy. 
 On the ground-floor, stout, resistant doric pillars bear 
 arcades forming a promenade ; and each curve, brist- 
 ling with its bosses, seems to be the joint of an antedi- 
 luvian spine. A brown tint like that of a crag corroded 
 by time, renders the huge edifice sombre from top to 
 bottom, extending even to the rude chequered flagging 
 of the court, enclosed within this accumulation of stones. 
 A Florentine trader built this palace in the fifteenth 
 century and thereby ruined liimseK. Brunelleschi made 
 the plan, and, fortunately, his successors who completed 
 the structure, did not modify its character. If a.nj- 
 thing can give an idea of the grandeur, severity and 
 audacity of intellect which the middle ages bequeathed 
 to the free citizens of the renaissance it is the aspect 
 of such a dwelling built by a single individual for his 
 own use, and the contrast of its internal magnificence 
 with its external simplicit}^ The Medicis, become ab- 
 solute princes, bought the palace in the sixteenth cen- 
 tury and decorated it as princes. It contains ^Ye hun- 
 dred pictures, all selected among the best, and several 
 are masterpieces. They do not form a musee according 
 to schools or centuries, as in our great modern collec- 
 tions, to serve the purposes of study or of history and 
 provide documents for a democracy which recognizes 
 science as its guide and instruction as its support ; they 
 decorate the saloons of a royal palace, wherein the 
 
TEAITS OF THE MEDICI FAMILY. 153 
 
 prince receives his courtiers and displays liis luxurions- 
 ness by festivities. The age of creators is replaced by 
 the age of connoisseurs, and the pomp of golden vest-- 
 ments, the gravity of Spanish etiquette, the gallantry of 
 recent sigisbeism the diplomacy of official intercourse 
 and the license and refinements of monarchical habits 
 and tastes display themselves alongside of the noble 
 forms and hving flesh of paintings, before golden ara- 
 besques on the walls and a sumptuous array of furniture 
 by which the prince manifests and maintains his rank 
 and figure. Pietro di Cortona, Fedi and Marini, the last 
 of the painters of the decadence, cover the ceilings with 
 allegories in honor of this reigning family. Here is 
 Minerva rescuing Cosmo I. from Yenus and presenting 
 him to Hercules, the type of great works and heroic 
 exploits ; he in fact, put to death or proscribed the 
 leading citizens of Florence, and he it is who said of a 
 refractory city that he " would rather depopulate it 
 than lose it." Elsewhere, Glory and Virtue are leading 
 him to Apollo, the patron of arts and letters ; he, in 
 fact, furnished magnificent apartments and pensioned 
 the writers of sonnets. Farther on, Jupiter and the en- 
 tire Olympian gToup are all astir to receive him ; he, in 
 fact, poisoned his daughter, caused his daughter's lover 
 to be killed and slew his son who had slain a brother ; 
 the second daughter was stabbed by her husband, and 
 the mother died on account of it ; these operations re- 
 commence in the following generation : assassinations 
 and poisonings are hereditary in this family. But the 
 tables of malachite and of pietra dura are so beautiful ! 
 The ivory cabinets, the mosaic furniture, the cups with 
 dragon handles are in such exquisite taste ! Wliat 
 court better enjoys works of art and knows better how 
 to give fetes ? What is there more brilliant, what more 
 ingenious than the mythological representations in 
 honor of the marriage of Francis di Medici with the 
 famous Bianco Capello and of Cosmo di Medici with 
 
154 THE FLOKENTINE SCHOOL OF AKT. 
 
 Mary Magdalen of Austria ?* What retreat could be 
 better for academicians who purify language and com- 
 pose dedications,, for poets who turn compliments and 
 point concetti? Obsequious politeness flourishes here 
 with its magniloquence, literary purism with its scru- 
 ples, contemptuous dilettantism with its refinements, 
 sensuality in satisfied indifference, while " the most il- 
 lustrious, most accomplished, most perfect gentleman," 
 becomes the cicerone of Europe, explains with a com- 
 placent smile to harharians from the North,t " the vir- 
 tue" of his painters and " the bravery" of his sculptors. 
 There are too many of them, — I have to say the same 
 as at the Uffizj, come and see them. Five or six pictures 
 by Eaphael stand out from the rest : one is that 
 Madonna which the Grand Duke took with him on his 
 travels ; she is standing in a red robe and with a long 
 green veil, the simplicity of the color heightening the 
 simplicity of the attitude. A small diaphanous white 
 veil covers the fine blonde hair up to the edge of the 
 brow ; the eyes are lowered and the complexion is of ex- 
 treme purity ; a delicate tint like that of the wild-rose 
 tinges the cheeks and the small mouth is closed ; she 
 has the calmness and innocence of a German virgin. 
 Eaphael here is still of the school of Perugino. — An- 
 other picture, " The Madonna della Seggiola" forms a 
 striking contrast to this. She is a beautiful Grecian or 
 Circassian Sultana ; her head is covered with a sort of 
 turban while striped oriental stuffs of bright colors and 
 embroidered with gold wind around her form ; she 
 bends over her child with the beautiful action of a wild 
 animal and her clear eyes, without thought, look you 
 full in the face. Raphael here has become the pagan 
 and only thinks of the beauty of physical being and 
 the embellishment of the human figure. — Tou recog- 
 
 * Nozze di Fiorenza, (witli engravings.) 
 f Milton's Travels in Italy. 
 
RAPHAEL. 155 
 
 nize this in the "Yision of Ezekiel," a small canvas a 
 foot high but of the grandest character. Jehovah, 
 who appears in a whirlwind, is a Jupiter with nude 
 breast, muscular arms and a royal bearing, and the 
 angels around him have such chubby bodies as to be 
 almost fat. None of the fury or delirium of the He- 
 brew seer subsists here ; the aDgels are joyous, the 
 grouping harmonious and the coloring healthy and beau- 
 tiful ; this vision which, with the prophet makes the 
 teeth clatter and the flesh creep, with the painter only 
 elevates and fortifies the soul. That which we find 
 with him throughout is perfection in the proportionate."^ 
 All his personages, whether christian or pagan, are in 
 equilibrium and at peace with themselves and with all the 
 world. They appear to dwell in the azure as he 
 himself lived in it, admired fi'om the start, beloved 
 by everybody, exempt from crosses, amorous without 
 phrensy, laboring without restlessness and, in this con- 
 stant serenity, occupied in obtaining a rounded arm 
 and a doubling thigh for an infant, a small ear and 
 curHng tresses for a woman, searching, purifying, dis- 
 covering and beaming as if only attentive to the music 
 within his own breast. On this account he only feebly 
 affects the spmts of those who know no repose. 
 
 Hence it is that subtle and impassioned painters, those 
 that wield their art with some grand motive, according 
 to a special and dominant instinct, please me more. 
 Portraits, from this point of view, impress me more 
 than all the rest, because they fully bring out peculiari- 
 ties of individual character. One of these, attributed 
 to Leonardo da Yinci, is called " The Nun." A white 
 veil like a wimple, rests on the head ; the breast, bare 
 midway down the bosom, swells superbly passionless 
 above a black velvet robe. The face is colorless, ex- 
 
 * The original is la perfection dans la mesure. The meaning I be- 
 lieve is, perfect parts in perfect relationship. — Tr. 
 
15^ THE FLOEENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 cepting the powerful and strange red lips, and the whole 
 physiognomy is calm with a slight expression of dis- 
 quietude. This, is not an abstract being, emanating 
 from the painter's brain, but an actual woman who has 
 lived, a sister of Mona Lisa, as complex, as full of 
 inward contrasts, and as inexplicable. Is she a nun, 
 a princess, or a courtezan ? Perhaps all three at once, 
 like that Yirginia de Leyva whose history has just 
 been exhumed. With the deadened pallor of the 
 cloister she has the splendid nudity of the outward 
 world, and the carnation of the lips on the impassible 
 pale face seems like a scarlet flower blooming on a 
 sepulchre. It is a soul, a dangerous, unfathomable 
 soul, slumbering or watchful, within that marble breast. 
 In this domain the "Venetians are the greatest mas- 
 ters, and Titian is of the highest rank. Eaphael's por- 
 traits (of which there are five here) teU me less ; he gives 
 the essential of the type, simply, soberly and broadly, but, 
 not like the former, the profound moral expression, the 
 mobile physiognomy, the personal originality utterly in- 
 finite, the entire inner nature of a man. Titian has 
 here eight or ten portraits, — Andrea Yesale the anato- 
 mist, Aretino, Luigi Cornaro, Cardinal Hippolyte di 
 Medici in the costume of a Hungarian magnate, all 
 of them full of life, with a look strange, disquieting 
 and uneasy but passive ; — Philip II. of Spain standing 
 in an official costume, with slashed breeches and hose 
 reaching to the middle of the thigh, a wan, cool-blooded 
 being with projecting jaw, seeming to be abortive, dis- 
 proportioned, incomplete, and steeped in birth and eti- 
 quette ; but especially a Venetian patrician whose name 
 is not known, one of the greatest masterpieces I am 
 familiar with. He is about thirty-five years old, in 
 black, pale, and with an intense look. The face is 
 slightly emaciated, the eyes are pale blue, and a deli- 
 cate moustache connects with a thin beard ; he is of a 
 noble race, and of high rank, but his enjoyment of 
 
THE CHAKMS OF VENETIAN ART. 157 
 
 life Las been less than that of a common laborer ; 
 accusations, anxieties and the sentiment of danger 
 have wasted and undermined him with secret and in- 
 cessant usury. It is an energetic, worn, and meditative 
 brain, used to sudden resolves at critical turns of life, 
 and glows in its surroundings of sombre hues hke a 
 lamp gleaming in an atmosphere of death. 
 
 Sometimes truthfulness is so vivid that the painter, 
 without knowing it, reaches the superlatively comic. 
 Such is the portrait which Veronese has painted of his 
 wife. She is forty-eight years old, double-chinned, has 
 the air of a court dowager and the coiffure of a poodle- 
 dog ; with her black-velvet robe cut low and square on 
 the neck in a fi-amework of lace she looks pompous 
 enough and proud of her charms ; she is a well-pre- 
 served ample figure, well-displayed, majestic and good- 
 natured, her ruddy flesh, perfect contentment and 
 general roundness suggesting a fine turkey ready for 
 the spit. 
 
 It is hard to leave these Venetians, the deep blue of 
 their landscape, their luminous nudities in w^arm shad- 
 ows, their rotund shoulders enveloped in palpable 
 atmosphere, quivering flesh blooming like conseiwatory 
 flowers, the changeable folds of lustrous stuffs, the 
 proud bearing of venerable men in their simarres, the 
 voluptuous elegance of female lineaments, the force of 
 expression of structure and of embrace with which 
 contorted or erect bodies display the opulence of theii' 
 vigor and the vitality of theu^ blood. A Giorgone por- 
 trays a nymph chased by a satyr, — how can wofds 
 render the enjoyment of the eye and the power of 
 tones ? All is bathed in shadow,* but the ardent motion- 
 less face, lovely shoulder, and bosom all issue forth like 
 an apparition ; one must see the living flesh emerging 
 from the deep shadow, and the intense splendor of 
 scarlet tones in deep and bright gradation from the 
 blackness of night to the radiance of open day. Facing 
 
158 THE FLOEENTINE SCHOOL OF AET. 
 
 this, a Cleopatra by Giiido, pearly gray on a light 
 slaty background, is nothing but a dull phantom, the 
 vanishing form of a sentimental young damsel. — Equally 
 animated as the' nymph of Giorgone is the woman en- 
 titled " Titian's mistress," in a blue robe embroidered 
 with gold and slashed with violet velvet. Her auburn 
 tresses of a clear blonde glow amidst light scattered 
 curls ; her lovely hands, of an exquisitely refined flesh 
 tone, are in repose, because her toilet is complete, 
 while her head, that of a gay young girl, happy in her 
 splendid attire, is enlivened by a scarcely perceptible 
 half-malicious smile. She resembles the " Yenus with 
 the Dog." If she is the same person, draped here and 
 undraped there, one can comprehend how painter, pa- 
 trician and poet lost themselves in such felicity ; the 
 heart and the senses are all absorbed ; such a woman 
 according to attitude and toilette, combined in herself 
 fifty other women. No soul, indeed, was required ; all 
 that was requisite were joyousness, beauty and adorn- 
 ment. Read in Aretinos' letters the description of his 
 own, and of other households in Venice. 
 
 But I must stop short. I have done wrong to let my 
 own taste divert me ; I ought to have confined myself 
 to the Florentine painters. Of these there are two, 
 Andrea del Sarto and Fra Bartolomeo, whom we scarcely 
 know at home, and who have reached the summit of 
 their art through their elevation of type, beauty of 
 composition, simplicity of process, harmony of draper- 
 ies and tranquillity of expression. Perhaps in these 
 a^^rage, complete geniuses one obtains the most accu- 
 rate and purest idea of the art and of the taste of 
 Florence. There are sixteen large paintings by Andrea 
 del Sarto in the Pitti Palace, others in the Corsini Pal- 
 ace and in the Uffizj gallery, and frescoes, still finer, in 
 the portico of the Servites. There are five large works 
 by Fra Bartolomeo in the Pitti Palace and especially 
 a colossal " St. Mark," less spirited and impetuous but 
 
FEA BAPtTOLOMEO. 159 
 
 as grave and as grand as the Prophets of Michael 
 Angelo ; others in the Uffizj and, finally, an admirable 
 "St. Vincent" in the Academy. This monk is the most 
 religious of the painters who have been complete mas- 
 ters of form ; none have so perfected the alliance be- 
 tween Christian purity and pagan beauty ; this same 
 man designed his Madonnas nude before applying the 
 color in order to secure a veritable and perfect body 
 beneath the falling drapery f and he became a Domin- 
 ican after the death of Savonarola in order to secure 
 salvation ; a strange union of apparently contradictory 
 actions, and which mark a unique moment in history ; 
 that in which new paganism and old Christianity, meet- 
 ing without struggle and uniting without distinctiveness, 
 permit art to worship sensuous beauty and to exalt 
 physical life, with the single condition that it shall only 
 prize nobleness and only portray the serious. With 
 moderate, attenuated and always sober coloring, with a 
 dominant taste for pure drawing, with exquisite propor- 
 tion, balance and finesse of faculties and instincts, 
 the Florentines have shown themselves better adapted 
 than others to fulfil this task. Italian art centred in 
 Florence as formerly Grecian art in Athens. As form- 
 erly in Greece other cities were inadequate or eccentric. 
 As formerly in Greece other developments remained 
 local or temporary, and like the Athens of former days, 
 Florence directed or rallied them around herself. As 
 formerly with Athens she maintained her supremacy 
 until the decadence. Through Bronzino, Pontormo, 
 the Allori, Cigoli, Dolci and Pietro da Cortona, through 
 its language and academies, through Galileo and Fili- 
 caja, through its savants and poets and, at length, later 
 through the tolerance of its masters and the spirit of 
 its resurrection, she remained in Italy the capital of the 
 mind. 
 
 * See the collection of original drawings in tlie Uffizj. 
 
BOOK W. 
 
 FROM FLORENCE TO YENICE. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 FKOM FLORENCE TO BOLOGNA— THE APENNINES— BOLOGNA— STREETS 
 AND FIGURES— WOMEN AND THE YOUNG— LOVE— SAN DOMENICO— 
 THE TOMB OF SAN DOMENICO— SAN PETRONIO— JACOPO DELLA 
 QUERCIA— JOHN OF BOLOGNA— END OF THE RENAISSANCE. 
 
 From Florence to Bologna, April 17. — A more beauti- 
 ful or more fertile country could not be imagined. 
 After leaving Pistoija tlie mountains commence ; from 
 hill to hill, then from crag to crag, the carriage slowly 
 ascends for two hours over a zigzag road, and from 
 the bottom to the top all is cultivated and inhabited. 
 At each turn of the road, we see houses and gardens, 
 terraces of olive-trees, fields sustained by walls, fruit- 
 trees sheltered in the hollows, bits of green meadow and, 
 everywhere, sparkling streams. Women on their knees 
 are washing clothes at the mouths of bubbling foun- 
 tains, or in the little wooden conduits that distribute 
 freshness and moisture to the surrounding declivities. 
 As far as the eye can reach, both valleys and eleva- 
 tions bear the marks of labor and of human prosperity. 
 Everything is turned to account ; chestnut-trees cover 
 the sharp points and the steep portions of the soil. 
 The mountain is like one enormous terrace of multi- 
 plied grades expressly arranged for diverse species of 
 culture. Even on the summit, in the vicinity of snow, 
 small terraces about six feet wide furnish grazing for 
 the flocks. Signs of this industry and prosperity are as 
 
DANTEAN SCENERY. IGl 
 
 visible among the inhabitants as upon the soil; the 
 peasantry wear shoes and the women, while tending their 
 flocks or walking, are braiding straw. The houses are 
 in good condition and the villages are numerous and 
 provided with communal schools and, on the summit of 
 the Apennines, is a cafe bearing the name of the moun- 
 tain range. This is truly the heart of Italy ; in genius, 
 power of invention, prosperity, beauty and salubrity, 
 Florence surpasses Rome, and against foreign invasion 
 this barrier of mountains would be a defence. 
 
 The other slope forms a second barrier; the Apen- 
 nines with its bastions is as broad as it is high ; on the 
 descent the road winds among little wooded gorges 
 trickling with water, all green beneath their ruddy 
 vesture of woods framed in by the sober forms of bare 
 rocks. Night comes on, and the railroad buries itself 
 in the defiles of a new mountain : a fantastic, horrible, 
 devastated landscape Hke those of Dante : mountains 
 shattered, rocks broken, long subterranean passages 
 wherein the roaring machine plunges as into a vortex, 
 and dismantled valleys no longer anything but a skele- 
 ton ; the torrent rushes almost under the wheels of the 
 carriages and great slides of gravel suddenly appear, 
 whitened in the bright moonlight. In this desert, 
 amidst beds of boulders accumulated during the winter, 
 and in the recesses of a sepulchral gorge is occasionally 
 seen a thorny tree like a spectre in its crypt, and when 
 the train stops, all that the ear catches is the roar of 
 the icy water falling over naked stones. 
 
 Bologna, April 17. — Bologna is a city of arcades ; they 
 extend on both sides of the principal streets. It is 
 quite pleasant to walk under them in summer in the 
 shade, and, in winter, protected from the rain. Almost 
 all of the Italian cities have thus some special contri- 
 vance or construction adding to the conveniences of 
 life and of service to everybody. Only in Italy do 
 people reaUy and universally comprehend the agi-ee- 
 
163 
 
 FROM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 able ; for the reason, perhaps, that everyboclj has need 
 of it and aspires to it. 
 
 That which strikes one among the young men here, 
 as in Florence arid elsewhere, that which is noticeable 
 in the faces at the theatre, on our promenades and in 
 the streets is a certain amorous air, a gracious smile 
 and tender and expansive ways; nothing is there of 
 French hardness or irony. They utter the terms 6e??a, 
 veggosa, vaga, leggiadra, with a peculiar accent like that 
 of Don Ottavio in Mozart or of the young tenors of the 
 Italian Opera. On the stage in Florence the tenor 
 kneeling to Marguerite was inconsistent but he per- 
 fectly expressed that state of mind. For the same 
 reason people dress in light colors pleasing to the eye 
 and wear rings and heavy gold chaias ; their hair is 
 glossy and there is something blooming and brilliant 
 throughout their persons. 
 
 As to the women, the bold and dark eye, their deep 
 black hair audaciously knotted or massed in lustrous 
 plaits, the vigorously defined forms of cheek and chin, 
 the brow often square, the large and well-set visage 
 below it and the solid boniness of the skull forestall 
 any appearance of gentleness or delicacy and, gener- 
 ally, even any air of nobleness and purity. To make 
 amends the structure and expression of their features 
 denote energy, brilliancy, gay self-confidence, a posi- 
 tive and clear intellect, and talent and will to turn life 
 to the best account. On looking in the windows of the 
 bookstores at the figures provided by the makers of 
 political caricatures for Italy and its provinces, we re- 
 cognize this very character; although goddesses and 
 allegorical goddesses, their heads are short and round, 
 and grossly gay and sensual. Nothing can be more 
 significant than these popular personages and these 
 recognized types. By way of contrast look at the mild 
 English female of " Punch," with long curls, and bran- 
 new frocks ; or the Frenchwoman of Marcelin, coquet- 
 
ITALL\N WOiyrEN. 163 
 
 tisb, sprightly, and extravagant, or the candid, honest, 
 primitive German woman, somewhat stupid, of the 
 " Kladderadatsch" and the minor journals of Berlin. I 
 have just strolled through the streets of Bologna ; it is 
 nine o'clock in the morning ; out of four women there 
 are always three of them frizzled and nearly in full 
 dress ; theu' keen eye boldly fixes itself on the passers- 
 by ; they go bareheaded, some of them merely letting a 
 black veil hang down over their shoulders ; their hair 
 swells out superbly on both sides of the head ; they 
 seem to be equipped for conquest ; nobody could im- 
 agine a more naturally triumphant physiognomy, an 
 air more like that of a prima-donna in the clouds. 
 With a character hke this, the spirit and the imagina- 
 tion of men, they must control. 
 
 What can be done at a table-d'hote if not to look 
 about one ? In this forced silence and society the brain 
 and eyes are both busy. The lady facing me is the wife 
 of a major on garrison duty in the Abruzzi, beautiful 
 although mature, gay, prompt, self-confident, and what 
 a tongue ! Northern and Southern Europe, the latin 
 and the germanic races are a thousand leagues apart in 
 this facility of expression, in bold judgment and in 
 promptitude of action. She argues and decides every- 
 thing — the indolence of the Abruzzi peasantry, their 
 vendetfe, the embarrassments of the government, her 
 dog, her husband, the officers of the battalion, "our fine 
 regiment, the 27th." She addresses me and then turns 
 to her neighbor, an ecclesiastic, who, Uke the rest, has 
 the same Italian air, that is to say he is gallant and 
 obsequiously polite. Her sentences flow out with the 
 velocity and sonorousness of an inexhaustible torrent. 
 Day before yesterday, another, about forty-eight, in a 
 black spencer puffed with ribbons, and with a red face, 
 entirely absorbed the conversation and made the apart- 
 ment ring with her tattle and exclamations. The other 
 day a pretty little hourgeoise became indisposed in the 
 
164 FKOM FLOKENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 diligence inUrieure, and lier liusband had her removed 
 up to the imperiale by our side. She questioned us all, 
 and corrected m;^ errors of pronunciation ; after having 
 two or three times in succession misplaced an accent 
 or not having caught the precise tone, she became im- 
 patient and gave me a scolding. She informs us that 
 she is just married, that she and her husband hadn't a 
 cent with which to begin housekeeping, etc. ; there are 
 three men alongside of her and she it is who takes and 
 keeps the lead. I have in my mind fifty others, all of 
 whom may be grouped around these three types. The 
 dominant trait is a vivacity and a clearness of concep- 
 tion boldly exploding the moment it is bom. Their 
 ideas are all cut out at sharp angles ; she is the 
 Frenchwoman, more vigorous and less fine ; like the 
 latter, and more than the latter, she is self-willed ; she 
 makes of herself a centre ; she does not await direction 
 from another, she takes the initiative. There is noth- 
 ing in her of the mild, the timid, the modest or the re- 
 served, no capacity for burying herself in her house- 
 hold with her children and husband in germanic 
 fashion. I involuntarily compare , her with the Eng- 
 lish women who are present. Some there are very 
 peculiar, puritanic at heart, rigid in morality, the fruit 
 of mechanical principles, one especially, in her straw- 
 hat like an extinguisher, a genuine spinster in embryo, 
 without toilet, grace, smile or sex, always silent or, 
 when she speaks, as keen as a knife-blade. She belongs, 
 without doubt, to that species of young lady who is 
 found ascending the White Nile alone with her mother, 
 or clambering up Mount Blanc at four in the morning 
 tied to two guides by a rope, her dress converted into 
 trowsers and striding along over the glaciers. In that 
 country artificial selection has produced sheep espe- 
 cially for meat, and natural selection, women especially 
 for action. But the same force has operated more 
 frequently in another sense ; the despotic energy of 
 
ITAUAN ENTHUSIASM. 165 
 
 the man, and tlie necessity of a tranquil home to the 
 overworked daily laborer have developed in the woman 
 qualities belonging to the ancient germanic stock, 
 namely a capacity for subordination and respect, 
 timorous reserve, aptitudes for domestic life, and the 
 sentiment of duty. She remains, accordingly, the 
 young girl even into matrimony ; on being spoken to she 
 blushes ; if, w^ith all possible precaution and circum- 
 spection, one tries to draw her out of the silence in 
 which she is immured she expresses her sentiments 
 with extreme modesty and immediately relapses. She 
 is immeasurably removed from any aspirations of com- 
 mand, of taking the initiative, of independence even. 
 In all the English couples I have recently met the man 
 is chief ; in every ItaHan couple it is the woman. 
 
 x^d this is not very surprising. People here seem 
 to be lovers naturally and organically. The drivers 
 and conductors of the diligences talk about nothing 
 else. Before a woman, as in the presence of every 
 beautiful or brilliant object, they leap at a single bound 
 to admiration and enthusiasm. quanto heUa ! Twenty 
 times a day I hear these earnest and emphatic expres- 
 sions. They resemble actors and exaggerating mimics. 
 BeUo, hello, hellissimo loalazzo ! La cMesa e mognifica, 
 stupenda, tutti di marmo, tutti di mosaica ! Their eyes 
 ensnare and their senses transport them. The more 
 the diverse races are studied the more do aptitudes for 
 enjoyment appear unequal. Some are scarcely moved 
 to pleasure ; others are transported and overcome by 
 it. Enjoyment, with some, resembles the taste of a 
 flavorless apple ; with others the melting and delicious 
 savor of clusters of golden grapes. With some the 
 ejffect of external objects is an almost uniform series of 
 moderate sensations ; with others it is a tumultuous 
 contrast of extreme emotions. Hence the ordinary 
 current of life is changed ; in every breast the charm 
 is proportioned to the degree of enjoyment. I might 
 
166 FEOM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 give, in this connection, two or three stories, and es- 
 pecially one, worthy of Bandello and Pecorone : I was 
 a confidant, and almost an eye-witness, in a small 
 town ; — but such 'stories are to be told and not written ; 
 the French language allows no expansion of simple 
 nude instinct ; that which is beautiful it pronounces 
 crudity. Here they are more tolerant ; they are ad- 
 dicted to espionage, it is true, as in our provincial 
 towns, but society is content to laugh ; it does not ex- 
 clude lovers, and is not prudish. 
 
 Bologna, Apil 17. — The churches are ordinary, in- 
 complete or modernized ; but the sculptures are strik- 
 ing. 
 
 The most precious are in San Domenico, on the 
 tomb of Saint Dominic decorated in 1231 by the re- 
 storer of art, Nicholas of Pisa. This is the first of the 
 monuments displaying the renaissance of beauty in 
 Italy. Bear in mind that at this period the ascetic 
 spirit through the Dominicans and Franciscans, gained 
 fresh energy ; that gothic art ruled throughout Europe ; 
 that it crossed the Alps and built Assisi. Just at the 
 height of this mystic fever, and on the marble tomb of 
 the first inquisitor, a statuary revives the virile beauty 
 of pagan forms. None of his figures are morbid, ex- 
 alted or emaciated ; on the contrary all are robust, 
 healthy and oftentimes joyous. If they have any de- 
 fect it is excess of vigor. Ordinarily their cheeks are 
 too full, the head too massive and the body, overstout, 
 is too heavy. The grand Yirgin in the centre has the 
 satisfied serenity of a good and happy mother of a 
 family ; her bambino is chubby and is growing finely. 
 A mother, w^hose son has been killed by his horse and 
 who is restored to life, shows the liveliest expression of 
 joy. Several figures of young girls, and one in par- 
 ticular on the extreme left of the fagade, seem to 
 be vigorous, blooming Greek caryatides. The most 
 ascetic personages are transformed in this artist's 
 
SAN DOMENICO. 167 
 
 hands ; numbers of the big hooded monks' heads are 
 real and humorous ; the dominant traits of all these 
 figures are placidity, solidity and good-humor. This 
 beautiful marble procession thus turns around the 
 panels of the tomb, and the statuettes decorating the 
 capitals, executed b}^ Niccolo dell' Area, two centuries 
 later, only repeat with a greater degree of skilfulness 
 the same firm and free conception ; two youths espe- 
 cially, one in a coat of mail and the other booted like 
 the archangels of Perugino, have an admirable spirited 
 attitude. This shrine lacks nothing of the combina- 
 tion in a few square feet of the entu'e development of 
 sculpture. A kneeling angel on the left, noble and 
 serene, and a St. Petronius, grandiose and severe, 
 holding the city in his hand, were chiselled by Mi- 
 chael Angelo, and from the first to the last matter, all 
 the works are of the same family, pagan, energetic and 
 well proportioned. — If now we promenade through the 
 church we will see that in this gTeat period of three 
 centuries the primitive idea did not falter. A tomb of 
 Taddeo Pepoli in 1337, substantial and beautiful, dis- 
 plays no gothic finery ; on the two sides two standing 
 saints, tranquil and in large mantles, regard a kneeling 
 figure offering them a small chapel. — Farther on the 
 monument of Alexander Tartegno, in 1477, in an 
 arched niche decked with flow^ers, fruits, animals' heads 
 and small corinthian columns, shows, above the re- 
 cumbent body, three Yirtues T\dth full and cheerful 
 countenances in richly carved drapery and in a studied 
 and expressive attitude. These are the complicated 
 groupings, the minghngs of ideas through which, in the 
 fifteenth century, the renaissance commences ; but, 
 among the various turns of thought, the sculptor has 
 preserved the same race of body imprinted on his 
 memory, and it is always the sentiment of the human 
 framework, the solid muscularity and the natural and 
 nude life which have guided him. 
 
168 FKOM FLOKEXCE TO VENICE. 
 
 This great city is dull and miserable. Several quar- 
 ters seem to be deserted ; vagabonds are playing and 
 wrangling in the open spaces. Numbers of stately 
 mansions seem gloomy like the houses of our provin- 
 cial towns. It was, in fact, a provincial city governed 
 by a pope's legate ; from an active republic it was con- 
 verted into a city of the dead. — The best cafe is 
 pointed out to us and we leave it as soon as possible ; 
 it is simply a grog-shop. We stop for a moment be- 
 fore two leaning towers, square and curious, built in 
 the twelfth century, and which have none of the 
 elegance of that of Pisa. We reach the principal 
 church, San Petronio, an ogival basilica with a dome 
 of the Italian gothic and of an inferior species : the 
 mind dwells with regret on the fine monuments of Pisa, 
 of Sienna, and of Florence ; a republican government 
 and a free creative energy did not last long enough 
 here to allow the edifice to be completed. The build- 
 ing is cut in two, and is half -finished ; the interior is 
 whitewashed; three quarters of the windows have 
 been closed up and the fagade is incomplete. In the 
 dim light which the too few windows allow to enter 
 there are some good sculptures perceptible; "Adam 
 and Eve" by Alfonso Lombardi, and an "Annuncia- 
 tion," — but one has not the courage to look at them, as 
 the eye is saddened. We go out, and from the dilapi- 
 dated steps, gaze on a dirty square with its beggars, 
 and a crowd of idle vagabonds. We retrace our steps 
 in order to obtain relief and suddenly get interested. 
 Over the central door is a cordon of superb figures, 
 grand and vigorous nude bodies, pagan in action and 
 in shape, an admirable new-born Eve, another Eve 
 spinning while Adam ploughs, Adam reaching up to 
 pluck the apple with a gesture of vigorous vitality. 
 They are by Jacopo della Quercia, who executed them 
 in 1425, at the same time that Ghiberti chased the 
 gates of the Baptistery; but Ghiberti anticipated 
 
FOUNTAIN BY JOHN OF BOLOGNA. 1G9 
 
 Raphael, and Querela seems to have been the pre- 
 cursor of Michael Angelo. 
 
 This is reyiying, and we proceed to a fountain that 
 we discover on the left. Here the renaissance and pa- 
 ganism reach their extreme point. On the summit is 
 a superb Neptune, in bronze, by John of Bologna 
 (1568) and not an antique god, calm and worthy of 
 adoration, but a mythological god serving as an orna- 
 ment, naked and displaying his muscles. On the four 
 comers of the basin four children, joyous and well 
 posed, are seizing so many leaping dolphins; under the 
 feet of the god are four females with fishes' legs dis- 
 playing the magnificent nudity of their bending forms, 
 the open sensuality of their bold heads and closely 
 clasping their swollen breasts to force out the jutting 
 water. 
 
CHAPTEE II. 
 
 THE PINACOTHECA.— EAPHAEL'S ST. CECILIA.— THE CARACCI.— STATE 
 OF SOCIETY AND OF ART DURING THE CATHOLIC RESTORATION.— 
 DOMENICHINO, ALBANO AND GUtDO. 
 
 Haying once made a tour of the Musee, one immedi- 
 ately feels himself led, re-led to, and arrested before 
 the principal picture, the " Saint Cecilia," by Kaphael. 
 She is standing, surrounded by four personages also 
 standing, and overhead in the sky are angels singing 
 from a music-book ; this is all. The painter evidently 
 does not aim at variety of attitude, nor at dramatic 
 interest ; there is no elaboration or effects of color ; a 
 reddish tone of admirable force and simplicity prevails 
 throughout the painting. All the merit lies in the 
 species and quality of the figures ; color, drapery, ac- 
 tion and the rest are there, like a grave sober accompa- 
 niment, which serves only to secure the solidity of the 
 body and the nobleness of the type. 
 
 How define this type ? The saint is neither angelic 
 nor ecstatic ; she is a vigorous, healthy, well-developed 
 girl, of rich warm blood, and gilded by the Italian sun- 
 shine with glowing and beautiful color. On her left 
 another young girl, less robust and more youthful, has 
 more innocence, but her purity is yet only passivity. 
 To my mind, however innocent and chaste they may 
 be they are less so through temperament than through 
 their youth ; their placid minds are not yet disturbed, 
 their tranquillity is that of ignorance. And, as with 
 Baphael, we have to go in quest of our comparisons to 
 the summit of the ideal, I will say for myself that but 
 two types surpass his, one that of the Greek goddesses, 
 and the other that of certain young girls of the north. 
 
171 
 
 With tlie same perfection of organization and tlie same 
 soul-serenitj they yet possess something more, the for- 
 mer the sovereign pride of aristocratic races and the 
 latter the sovereign purity of the spirituahstic tempera- 
 ment. 
 
 One readily sees here the exact moment in art which 
 this painting represents. These five standing figures, no 
 more than those of Perugino opposite to them, are not 
 aUied to each other, and impelled by a common impulse ; 
 each figiu'e exists for itself ; the composition is as simple 
 as possible, almost primitive ; it is an ecclesiastical pic- 
 ture and not a parlor decoration ; it has been commis- 
 sioned by some devout old lady and ministers to piety 
 more than to pleasure. But again the personages are 
 not as stiff as those of Perugino ; their immobility 
 does not interdict action. They are robust, muscular 
 and broadly draped ; beautiful, free, composed, like 
 antique figures. The painter enjoys the unique ad- 
 vantage of standing between a Christianity that is de- 
 clining and a paganism that is becoming triumphant, 
 between Perugino and Julio Romano. In every cycle 
 of development there is one fortunate moment, and 
 one alone ; Raphael benefited by one of these Hke 
 Phidias, Plato and Sophocles. 
 
 What a distance between this St. Cecilia and the pic- 
 tures of his master Perugino, and of his friend Francia 
 whom he begged to correct his work ! There are six 
 of Francia's near it, — benevolent Madonnas copied 
 from life ; a little less precise and dry than those of 
 Perugino, but always instinct with literal art and the 
 hard hand of the goldsmith. How expanded, noble 
 and free everything becomes in the hands of the youth- 
 ful painter ! And how comprehensible are the admir- 
 ing shouts of Italy ! 
 
 He has a bad effect upon his successors, the Bolo- 
 gnese, who fill this gallery. On passing from a picture 
 by Raphael to one of their works it seems like going 
 
172 FROM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 from a simple writer to a rhetorician. They aim at 
 effects, and are extravagant ; they no longer know how 
 to use language correctly; they force or falsify the sense 
 of terms ; they' refine or exaggerate, their ambitious 
 style contrasting with their feeble conceptions and 
 their negligent diction. And yet they are zealous labor- 
 ers, so many restorers of the language. Compared 
 with the Vasaris, Sabbatinis, Passerottis and Procacin- 
 nis, to their predecessors and rivals, to the degenerate 
 disciples of the great masters, they are painstaking 
 and moderate. They are not disposed to paint con- 
 ventionally, according to prescription like some of 
 their contemporaries, who, expeditious artists, gloried 
 in executing figures fifty feet high, in turning out half 
 a mile of painting per diem, painting even with both 
 hands, forgetful of nature and deriving everything 
 from their own genius, heaping together incredible mus- 
 cles, extraordinary foreshortenings, theatrical attitudes 
 on a grand scale and treating all with the indifference 
 of a manufacturer and a charlatan. They stem this 
 tide ; they study the old masters, remain poor and un- 
 employed a long time, and, finally, open a school. Here 
 they labor and neglect nothing in order to become 
 instructed in every department of their art. They 
 copy living heads and draw from the nude model ; casts 
 from the antique, medals and original drawings by the 
 masters supply them with examples. They acquire a 
 knowledge of anatomy from corpses and of mythology 
 from books. They teach architecture and perspec- 
 tive ; they discuss and compare the processes of an- 
 cient and modern masters ; they observe the transfor- 
 mation of features through which a virile trait is con- 
 verted into a feminine trait, an inanimate form into a 
 human form, a tragic attitude into a comic attitude. 
 They become learned, even erudite, eclectic and system- 
 atic. They fix principles and devise canons for painters 
 as the Alexandrians formerly did for orators and for 
 
THE CARACCI. l'^3 
 
 poets. They recommend " the drawing of the Roman 
 school, the action and shadows of the Venetians, the 
 beautiful color of Lombardy, the terrible style of 
 Michael Angelo, the truth and naturalness of Titian, 
 the pure and masterly taste of Correggio, the dignity 
 and solidity of Pellegrini the creativeness of the wise 
 Primaticcio and a little of the grace of Parmegiano."^" 
 They lay up stores and exercise themselves. Let us 
 see what fruit this patient culture is going to produce. 
 
 There are thirteen large pictures here by Ludovico 
 Caracci, and among them, a " Nativity of St. John the 
 Baptist" and a " Transfiguration on Mount Tabor." 
 Few personages can be imagined more declamatory 
 than the three figures of the apostles, half thrown back- 
 ward and especially the one with a naked shoulder ; 
 they are colossi, too rapidly executed and are without 
 substance or solidity. — His nephew, Augustino, is a 
 better painter, and his " Communion of St. Jerome" 
 furnished the principal points for a similar picture by 
 Domenichino ; nevertheless, like his uncle he subordi- 
 nates the essential to the accessory, truth to effect, 
 forms and tones to action and expression. — The second 
 nephew, Annibale Caracci, is the cleverest of all. 
 Two of his pictures, representing the Virgin in her 
 glory, conform to the sentimental piety of the age ; 
 his chiaroscuro and the multitude of tints fused into 
 each other cater to the ambiguous emotions of effemi- 
 nate devotion. His St. John designating the Virgin 
 resembles an amoroso ; near him a man kneeling, with 
 a large black beard, expresses his emotion with a com- 
 placent tenderness not exempt from insipidity. The 
 Virgin on her throne, the two saints male and female 
 that accompany her, bend over with languishing grace. 
 That beautiful saint herself in a pale violet robe, with 
 parted fingers and plump hands, that Virgin with her 
 
 * From a sonuet by Augustiuo Caracci. 
 
174 
 
 FROM FLOEENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 amiable dreamy air, are half-amorous and half-mjstic 
 ladies. Seek for the sentiment which the art restored 
 by the Caracci serves to manifest, and there it is. In 
 Italy, toward the end of the sixteenth century the 
 character of man becomes transformed. The terrible 
 shocks and infinite ravages of foreign invasion, the ruin 
 of the free republics and the establishment of suspicious 
 tyrannies, the irremediable oppression of a rigorous 
 Spanish rule, the catholic restoration under the Jesuits, 
 the ascendency of bigoted popes and inquisitors, the 
 persecution of free thinkers and the organization of 
 clerical government snapped the spring of the human 
 will ; society relaxes and grows enervated ; people get 
 to be epicurean and hypocritical, and confess themselves 
 and make love. How great the distance between the 
 geniality, light careless fancy and naturally healthy 
 sensuality of Ariosto, and the forced phantasmagoria, 
 the morbid voluptuous derangement, the chivalry and 
 operatic piety found fifty years afterward in Tasso ! 
 And poor Tasso is denounced as impious ! He is com- 
 pelled to recast his crusade, to prune his love scenes, 
 to exalt his characters, to transform them into allego- 
 ries. Man has become effeminate and perverted ; pow- 
 erful and pure ideas no longer please him, but a 
 medley of refinements, conceits and graduated senti- 
 ments compounded of pleasure and asceticism, alter- 
 nating betwixt the stage and the church, the crucifix 
 and the alcove. The same smile in this epoch rests 
 alike on the lips of saints and of goddesses ; the nudity 
 of christian Madonnas is as attractively displayed as 
 that of pagan Yenuses, the cavalier beholding his mis- 
 tress decked, smiling and with open arms on the gild- 
 ing of his chapel as upon that of his own palace. 
 Love itself is transformed ; it is no longer frank and 
 intense ; Kaphael's Fornarina to them would seem 
 simply a sound well-conditioned body ; they would 
 prefer in her more affecting and more complex charms. 
 
SENTIMENTAL ART. 175 
 
 more delicate and more intoxicating seductions, a mel- 
 anclioly and mystic sweetness, the vague and winning 
 grace of dreamy abandonment, moistened or ravished 
 eyes ' interrogating space, soft forms melting away in 
 the obscurity of shadows, draperies folded or displayed 
 with studied ingenuity in the languor of artificial light 
 or in the magic of chiaroscuro. They crave affecta- 
 tion and elaboration as their predecessors craved force 
 and simplicity ; on all sides, among the divergencies of 
 the schools, with Baroche, Cigoli and Dolci, as with 
 the Caracci, Domenichino, Guido, Guercino and Al- 
 bano, we see a style of painting appear corresjoonding 
 to the sugared beauties of the prevailing poesy to 
 the new sigisbeism just introduced and to the opera 
 about to commence. 
 
 When the soul has become enervated it demands 
 powerful emotions ; over-refinement leads to violence, 
 and the nerves which, habituated to action have lost 
 their stable balance, exact, after the tickling of delicate 
 sensations, the uproar of extreme sentiments. Hence 
 the extravagance of this sentimental art. The faithful 
 have to be revived here by the pale face of a corpse, 
 there by a butchery of martyrs, and there again by 
 grossly coarse figures in contrast with those of an ex- 
 quisitely celestial type ; and always through the use of 
 excessive gestures, imposing attitudes, a multitude of 
 characters and dramatic effects. In this direction the 
 Bolognese squander their talent and their art. A large 
 work by Domenichino, " Our Lady of the Eosary," 
 unites and masses together four or five tragic episodes 
 aiming to show the efficacy of the sacred rosary : two 
 females in mutual embrace and whom a cavalier tries 
 to pierce with his lance, a soldier attempting to stab a 
 shouting woman, a hermit dying on his straw pallet, a 
 bishop in his cope supplicating Our Lady, all accu- 
 mulated together in one frame; frightened or weeping 
 figures, melodramatic executioners, pity, terror and 
 
176 
 
 FROM FLOEENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 curiositj appealed to capriciously and without stint ^ 
 above all tliis, a shower of flowers and falling chaplets, 
 and the Madonna surrounded by frolicsome or tearful 
 angels bearing the crown of thorns with the cross, 
 Saint Veronica's handkerchief, and other insignia of 
 mechanical devotion ; and, in the uppermost regions, 
 the little Jesus holding up, as if in triumph, a bouquet 
 of roses. Such is the piety of the day, as I have seen 
 it in Eome in the Jesuits' churches, a grand-orchestra 
 piety, aiming at conquering its public by dint of the 
 pleasing and by excitations. — His celebrated " Martyr- 
 dom of St. Agnes" is in the same taste. In the fore- 
 ground lies a heap of corpses, the mouth of one opened 
 by his last cry, a horror-stricken woman thrown back- 
 ward with a theatrical air and her infant concealing 
 itself in her robe. The saint meanwhile on her block, 
 pale, her eyes upturned to heaven, stretches out her 
 neck while a lamb, the symbol of her meekness, tries to 
 draw near and hck her feet. Behind her is the execu- 
 tioner with his skull illuminated and his face in shadow 
 all red and brown, the strength of the color and the 
 ferocity of his visage setting off the pallor and gentle- 
 ness of his victim ; he has a narrow hard head and is 
 an excellent executioner, studious to strike his blade 
 home. At the top appears a choir of noisy angels, 
 while Christ bends forward with an interested air to 
 take the crown and the palm-branch which an angel, a 
 genuine domestic, respectfully offers to him. And yet 
 it is full of talent ; this work abounds with richness, 
 truth and expression. Domenichino is a true artist ; 
 he felt, studied, dared and found. Although born in 
 a time when types were prescribed and classified he 
 was original ; he reverted back to observation and dis- 
 covered a hitherto unknown part of human nature. In 
 his " Peter of Yerona" the fright of the saint, his 
 wrinkled and contracted brow, the crisped hands ex- 
 tended to ward off the blow, the terrified face of the 
 
ALBANO AND GUERCINO. 177 
 
 other monk who runs off raising his arms in despair 
 mingled with horror, every attitude and every physiog- 
 nomy in the picture are new creations ; here, for the 
 first time, is the full, hopeless expression of passion ; 
 the terror, even, is so true that both the heads approach 
 the grotesque. Domenichino is never afraid of vul- 
 garity. He sets out fi'om the real, from the object 
 see?i ; the contrast between his classic education and 
 his native sincerity, between what he knows and what 
 he feels is certainly a strange one. 
 
 Almost all the painters of this school are here repre- 
 sented. There are three of the principal works of 
 Albano, all of a reHgious character, but equally as sen- 
 timental as his pagan pictures. For example, in his 
 " Baptism of Christ" the angels are gallant pages of 
 good birth ; of all the masters he is perhaps the one 
 who best expresses the taste of this epoch, affected and 
 insipid, fond of sentimental nudities and gay mythologi- 
 cal subjects. — Five or six pictures by Guercino with 
 cadaverous tones and powerful effects of shadows, are 
 striking but inferior to those I saw at Eome. Th ose 
 of Guido, on the contrary, are superior. I was only 
 familiar with his productions in his second manner, 
 almost all of them being gray, pale, formless and 
 without substance, produced quickly and according to 
 prescription, simple agreeable contours of easy, worldly 
 elegance but without embodying a substantial animated 
 figure , He possessed however, a fine genius, and if his 
 character had equalled his talent he would have been 
 qualified to attain to the first rank in his art. Here, 
 in the freshness and vigor of early inspiration he is 
 tragic and grand. He has not yet fallen into a faded, 
 bleached style of coloring ; he feels the dramatic power 
 of tones, and all that strong contrasts and the lugubri- 
 ous moumfulness of mingled dark tints speak to the 
 heart of man. Around his Christ on the cross and the 
 weeping saints about him the sky is nebulous, almost 
 
 8* 
 
178 
 
 FEOM FLOEENCE TO YENICE. 
 
 black and overcast witli storm-clouds, tlie personages 
 standing in these vast floating draperies — St. Joiin in 
 his enormous red mantle, his hands clasped in despair, 
 the Magdalen at the foot of the cross streaming with 
 hair and falling drapery, the Virgin in her monrnfnl 
 blue robe enveloped in an ashy mantle, — all this suffer- 
 ing choir, forming, through its color and masses, a sort 
 of grandiose, clamorous declamation which ascends up- 
 ward to heaven. Still more grandiose is the tragedy 
 entitled " Our Lady of Pity," and which covers an en- 
 tire panel of the wall. Five colossal figures, the pro- 
 tecting saints of Bologna, in large damascene copes, 
 earthy-hued monks' frocks and warriors' coats, appear 
 together, and behind them, in the distance, you can dis- 
 tinguish the obscure forms of bastions and the towers 
 of the city over which their protection extends. Above 
 them, as if in an upper story of the celestial world, a 
 dead Christ between two weeping angels, displays his 
 livid pallor ; still higher, at the summit of the mystic 
 region, a grand mournful Virgin enveloped in blue dra- 
 pery, finds in her own grief more profound compassion 
 for human miseries. This is a chapel background; 
 purer and more christian subjects were executed in the 
 times of perfect and primitive piety ; but for the exci- 
 ted piety of subsequent eras, for a catholic and an epi- 
 curean city suddenly swept by pestilence and bowed 
 down by great anguish there is no painting more appro- 
 priate or more affecting. 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 FROM BOLOGNA TO RAVENNA.— LANDSCAPE.— -PEASANTRY.— THE 
 TOMB OF THEODORIC— RAVENNA. -BYZANTINE ARCHITECTURE.— 
 SAN APOLLLNARE AND ITS MOSAICS. 
 
 April 18. — This country seems to be made for the de- 
 light of a northern man, for eyes which satiated with 
 too distinct forms and wearied with too bright light, 
 gladly repose on a hazy indefinite horizon covered with 
 a vapory atmosphere. It has rained ; heavy dark 
 clouds sleep quietly overhead, and, near the horizon, 
 almost drag along the ground. Sometimes, the white 
 back of a cloud exposes its satin lustre in the midst 
 of the pale mist ; an invisible sun warms the banks of 
 vapor, while, here and there, scattered rays peer out 
 like a diamond brooch from soft gray gauze. Toward 
 the east extends an infinite flat plain. Its myriads of 
 trees form in the distance at the edge of the sky a pro- 
 digious spider's web of innumerable thin and mingled 
 threads. Their tops still brown are wedded to the 
 young spring verdure, to willows, budding poplars, and 
 the bright green grain. The earth has imbibed largely ; 
 the water glistens in the furrows, ditches and lagunes, 
 and league after league, both right and left, the eye 
 always falls on the tilled fields, and interminable rows 
 of elms between which, travelling from trunk to trunk, 
 are interlaced the tortuous stems of the vines. 
 
 I enter into conversation with an ecclesiastic of the 
 country, and formerly a director in a college. The 
 clergy here support the Pope on principle ; but all the 
 bourgeoisie, every partially educated person, the larger 
 portion of the nobility, even at Kavenna where aris- 
 tocratic pride runs so high, are for the new order 
 of things. 
 
180 
 
 FROM FLOEEXCE TO YEXICE. 
 
 Mj ecclesiastical friend is liberal, strongly commends 
 tlie schools and army which are the two latest great 
 institutions. According to him " character in this coun- 
 try is naturally very violent ; people resort to the sti- 
 letto instanter ; (Lord Byron in his letters calls them 
 superb two-legged tigers.) On receiving an insult they 
 conceal themselves at night and kill the offender. 
 Nothing can be more serviceable to such people than 
 schools ; instruction, reflection and reason are the sole 
 counterpoises to instinct and temperament. As to the 
 army, not only is it a school of obedience and honor 
 but again an ulcerous issue ; nothing could be more 
 pertinent here than the proverb, oziosi^ viziosi ; exces- 
 sive ferocity must be utilized against enemies instead 
 of being criminally expended on neighbors ; many en- 
 ergetic men who would have been private malefactors 
 are thus converted into public protectors. The refrac- 
 tory, however, are not numerous ; their numbers dimin- 
 ish annually. In the beginning the unknown, and 
 transplantation frightened them ; since that time the 
 narratives of their comrades have reassured them, and 
 a brilliant uniform begins to entice them. Another 
 wholesome influence is the severity of the tribunals ; 
 assassinations are less frequent since convicts have 
 ceased to be pardoned at the* end of six months. The 
 important thing in this country is to bridle the passions 
 which are quite savage and the new regime labors in 
 this direction." 
 
 It is now clear to me that the promoters and sup- 
 porters of the revolution throughout Italy are the en- 
 hghtened and intelligent among the middle and bour- 
 geois class ; and that the difficulty lies in winning over 
 and civilizing or itahanizing the people. Lord Byron 
 in 1820, at Eavenna, already states that the instructed 
 alone are liberal, and that, in the projected insurrection, 
 the peasantry would not rise. 
 
 The train stops, and, at a quarter of a league from 
 
EAYENNA. 181 
 
 the city a round low dome appears between the green 
 tops of the poplars ; this is the Tomb of Theodoric. 
 Its columns plunge down into a morass ; its doors are 
 falling, rotted by dampness ; the stones of the rotunda 
 seem to have been knocked away by blows from a 
 hammer. The enormous cupola, one single mass 
 thirty-four feet in diameter, has been riven by Hght- 
 ning. There is nothing in the interior save one altar 
 and the names of witless travellers and stupid inscrip- 
 tions written in lead-pencil on the dripping walls. The 
 sarcophagus in which the body reposed has been re- 
 moved ; the old king was driven out of his sepulchre at 
 the same time as his Gothic subjects from their domain, 
 and only croaking frogs are heard in the stagnant pool 
 filling the empty crypt. 
 
 On returning to Ravenna the spectacle is still more 
 melancholy. One cannot imagine a more deserted, 
 more miserably provincial, more fallen city. Tlie 
 streets are deserts ; a few sharp stones serve as a pave- 
 ment ; a foul gutter runs midway through them ; 
 there are no palaces or shops. Two fa9ades of public 
 edifices, well scraped, the Academy and the theatre, are 
 all that stand out in bold relief against this desolation 
 through their cleanliness and commonplace character. 
 You perceive old, rusty and dilapidated towers, the re- 
 mains of ancient structures adapted to new uses, small 
 white columns inserted in one of Theodoric's walls and 
 plenty of nooks and corners for the populace. What 
 could poor Byron accompHsh here, even with his Count- 
 ess Guiccioli? Sombre dramas, conspiracies, Byron- 
 ism. The city has been dead for I know not how many 
 centuries. The sea has receded ; it is the last station 
 of the Roman empire, a sort of stranded waif which, 
 when Byzantium withdrew, she abandoned on the 
 strand. This city, on this rarely-visited, unhealthy 
 coast could not revive in the middle ages like those of 
 Tuscany. Even to-day it is still Byzantine, and more 
 
183 PROM FLORENCE TO YENICE. 
 
 desolate than a ruin because corruption is worse than 
 extinction. A canal leads to the sea, and on its sleepy 
 waters a few boats are seen and four or five sailing-craft. 
 The only beautiful object about the city is a forest of 
 pines which has taken root between it and the brackish 
 waves, and whose distant tops like so many dark circles 
 form a bar on the line of the horizon. 
 
 Ravenna. — Travellers who have visited the Orient 
 say that Ravenna is more Byzantine than Constanti- 
 nople itself. A city like this is unique ; what can be 
 more strange than this Byzantine world ? We are not 
 sufficiently familiar with it; we have a collection of 
 dull chroniclers and Gibbon, who gives of it a very fair 
 idea ; but the distance is infinite between mere ideas 
 and a complete, colored image. What a spectacle, 
 that of a world in which antique civilization drags 
 along for a thousand years and ends under a perverted 
 Christianity and among oriental importations ! Nothing 
 like it can be found in history ; it is a unique moment 
 of the human soul and culture. We have a good 
 knowledge of the origins, growth and perfection of va- 
 rious peoples, and even of partial declines like those of 
 Italy and Spain ; but a degeneracy so long and compli- 
 cated, a gigantic mouldering away of a thousand years 
 in a closed retort, aggravated by the fermentations of 
 so many and such opposite species, is without example. 
 There are two civilizations, both of them resembling 
 the immense ulcers, swellings and deformities of hu- 
 manity, which I would like to see narrated, not by an 
 antiquary but by an artist, those of Alexandria and 
 Byzantium. Add to these India and China, when the 
 archaeological soil shaU have been well ploughed up by 
 the erudites. 
 
 The first church you encounter, San Apollinare, is a 
 large gable-shaped facade, furnished with a portico 
 that supports arcades resting on columns. The nave 
 still retains the form of the latin basilica with a flat 
 
BYZANTINE AKT. 183 
 
 ceiling, and twenty veined marble columns brouglit from 
 Constantinople profile tlieir corinthian capitals, already 
 perverted, up to the round apsis. The edifice is of the 
 sixth century, but the unchangeable mosaics which on 
 both sides cover the frieze of the nave show as clearly 
 as at the first day what Greek art had got to be in the 
 monastic hands of theological disputants and of the 
 rouged Csesars of the Lower Empire. 
 
 It is stiU Greek art. Ten centuries after their death 
 the sculptors of the Parthenon keep their hold on the 
 human mind, and the babbling idiots who now^ usurp 
 the world's stage ever detect with their blinking eyes, 
 as through a mist, the grand forms and noble drapery 
 which once ranged themselves on the pediments of pa- 
 gan temples. Two processions extend above the capi- 
 tals, one of twenty-two saints ending with the Virgin, 
 and the other of twenty-two saints ending with Christ, 
 and in neither of them do the extreme ngiiness, the 
 close imitation of ATilgar reality as seen in the middle 
 ages, yet appear. On the contrary the figures of the 
 women, regular, rather tall, calm although sad, have 
 an almost antique dignity ; their hair falls in tresses 
 and is gathered at the top of the brow as in the coif- 
 fure of nymphs : their stoles depend in long, grave 
 folds. Equally grave, a file of grand virile figures de- 
 velops itself, and near Christ and the Virgin are angels 
 praying in large white vestments their foreheads encir- 
 cled with white bandlets. But here all reminiscences 
 end : the artists know traditionally that a form must be 
 draped, that a certain adjustment of the hair is prefer- 
 able and a certain form of the face ; they no longer 
 know what virile form and what young and healthy 
 soul lived beneath these externals. They have un- 
 learned observation of the living model, the Fathers 
 having interdicted it ; they copy authorized types ; 
 their mechanical hands servilely repeat, copy after 
 copy, the contours which their minds no longer compre- 
 
184 FEOM FLOKENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 hend, and which unskiKul imitation is to falsify. From 
 artists they have become mechanics, and in this fall, 
 deeper and deeper every day, they have forgotten the 
 half of their art. They no longer recognize human di- 
 versity; they repeat twenty times in succession, the 
 same costume and action; their virgins can do no 
 more than wear crowns and advance with an air of im- 
 mobility, all in great white stoles, one, especially, in a 
 striped or mottled gold cloth like a Chinese frock, with 
 a large white veil attached to the head and with orange- 
 colored shoes, in short the costume of ancient Greece 
 lengthened in monastic fashion and embroidered with 
 oriental spangles. They possess no physiognomy ; the 
 features, frequently, are as barbarous as those of a 
 child's drawing. The neck is rigid, the hands wood- 
 eny and the folds of the drapery mechanical. The per- 
 sonages are rather indications of men than men them- 
 selves ; and when the man is got at through the indica- 
 tion the spectacle revealed is still more melancholy, 
 which is the debasement of the model beyond the in- 
 eptitude of the mosaicist and the decadence of man be- 
 yond the decadence of art. 
 
 There is not, indeed, one of these figures that is not 
 that of a vacant, flattened, sickly idiot. Words are 
 wanting to express their physiognomy, that air of a 
 well-built man and with ancestors of a fine race, now 
 half destroyed, as if dissolved by a system of long fast- 
 ing and paternosters. They have that dull aspect, 
 that species of lax debility and resignation in which the 
 living creature, vainly struck, returns no sound."^ 
 They no longer possess action, will, thought, or spirit ; 
 they are no longer capable of standing up although 
 erect. One w^ould imagine secret vices, so evident is 
 the exhaustion of blood and human vitality. The 
 angels are great simpletons with staring eyes, hollow 
 
 * See, in particular, the seventli figure alongside of Christ. 
 
BYZANTINE ART. 185 
 
 cheeks and that prim and chilled air common to peas- 
 ants who, taken from the fields and transported amid 
 the bickerings, formahties and restraints of theology 
 and the seminary, become bleached and yellow, stupid 
 and abashed. Above the angels several of the saints 
 seem to be emerging from a long fit of nausea or a 
 tedious fever : nobody would believe, before having 
 seen them, that an animated being could become so 
 inert and flabby and lose to such a degree, his physi- 
 cal and moral substance. But that which most inten- 
 sifies the impression is the figure of Christ and of the 
 Virgin. Christ in a brown mantle, with the beard and 
 hair of the ancient gods, is nothing but an impov- 
 erished, belittled god; his brow, the seat of intelli- 
 gence, is contracted and almost effaced ; his lips are 
 thin, the face attenuated, and his big eyes cavernous. 
 This degradation is unequalled except by that of the 
 Virgin. The panagia has sunk away to an extraordi- 
 nary degree ; nothing is left to her but her eyes ; the 
 nose and mouth are almost gone, while her emaciated 
 hands and fleshless face are those of a dying consump- 
 tive ; she has the action of a manikin, or of a skeleton 
 whose bones and tendons just move, her large violet 
 mantle letting no sign appear of the contracted body 
 beneath it. 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 CHAEACTEK OF THE CXVILIZATION OP CONSTANTINOPLE.— CHANGE 
 AND ABASEMENT OF THE SOCIAL AND ARTISTIC SPIRIT.— SAN 
 VITALE, ITS ARCHITECTURE AND MOSAICS.— JUSTINIAN AND 
 THEODORA.— THE TOMB OF PLACIDIA. 
 
 What kind of macliiiiery is it which, catching the 
 human sprout in its cogs insensibly expresses all its 
 sap and succulence in order to leave of it simply an 
 empty form and an inert detritus ? First comes the 
 brutal Roman republic, then the onerous imposts of the 
 Roman Caesars, then the still more onerous imposts of 
 the Byzantine Csesars, and a despotism in which all 
 forces capable of depressing man are found combined. 
 — The emperor is a pacha, who may deprive any of his 
 subjects, even a bishop, of life without trial; he may 
 confiscate whatever private property he covets or de- 
 clare himself heir to any fortune he likes ; all dignities, 
 all estates, all lives in this society anxiously hang upon 
 the caprices of his arbitrary will. — The emperor is an 
 inquisitor. Under Justinian twenty thousand Jews are 
 massacred and twenty thousand sold. The Montan- 
 ists are burned along with their churches. The patri- 
 cian Photius, forced to abjure Hellenism stabs himself 
 with a poniard, and in other reigns, we see heretics 
 exiled, despoiled, mutilated or burnt alive. — The em- 
 peror is the head of a faction or sect, at one time 
 orthodox, and at another heretic, now persecuting the 
 "Blues" and now the "Greens," allowing his own 
 party to commit robberies, assassinations and other out- 
 rages on the public highways. — The emperor is a pre- 
 fect over morals and manners. Under Justinian vo- 
 
DESPOTISM OF THE EASTERN EMPIRE. 187 
 
 luptuoiisness is punished the same as assassination, 
 and parricides, and debauchees are paraded bleeding 
 through the streets of Constantinople. — The emj)eror 
 is a bureaucrat. His systematic administration, 
 extending downward through all provinces, every- 
 W'here stifles human enterprise in order to leave on the 
 soil nothing but functionaries and tributaries. — The 
 emperor is a professor of etiquette. A complicated 
 ceremonial prescribes under him a hierarchy of offi- 
 cials who are machines only, and whose actions, like 
 his own, are subordinated to empty forms, the signifi- 
 cance of w^hich is often quite unknow^n to them."^ 
 Every mechanical contrivance wliich can suppress in 
 man his power of will and activity Avork together con- 
 tinuously and for centuries, the violent ones that crush, 
 and the enfeebling ones that undermine, terror as in 
 oriental monarchies, denunciations as in Imperial 
 Kome, orthodox persecutions as in Spain, legal rigor- 
 ism as in Geneva, the camorra as in Naples, and offi- 
 cial routine and bureaucratic enrollment as in China. 
 Like an axe that fells, like a file that wears, like an 
 acid that corrodes, like a rust that defaces, the various 
 elements of despotism in turn, hack, break, decompose 
 or soften the sohd and trenchant steel subjected to 
 their action. This is readily apparent in the language 
 of their writers ; they no longer know how to praise or 
 to blame. Trebonius, associated wdth Justinian, says 
 that he fears that he wdll see him disappear, borne off 
 by angels because he is too celestial. Procopius 
 thinks that Justinian and Theodora are not human 
 beings but demons and vampires sent to desolate the 
 earth ; after eight books of adulation he at last lets 
 loose his hatred and heaps up furious detractions wdth 
 the blind awkwardness and mechanical rage of a des- 
 perado who, having escaped torture, stammers, repeats 
 
 * Codinus Curopalates. 
 
188 FEOM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 MmseK and remains dumb.* Others are courtiers, cav- 
 illers, and scribes, and the nation is the same as its 
 writers. The characters which such a regime multiplies 
 or brings forward consists first of palace domestics, em- 
 broidered chamberlains, flaunting mercenaries, the 
 eunuchs,t the intriguers, the extortioners and after 
 these the scribblers, the casuists, the bigots, the 
 pedants and the rhetoricians, and, by their side on 
 the broad stage of society, horse-drivers, buffoons, 
 actresses, lorettes and gandins. 
 
 Such, indeed, are the conspicuous characters in the 
 play. Old Eoman iniquity subsists under the monkish 
 crust which Christianity has formed over it ; the con- 
 demned are stiU given up to lions in the arena ; the en- 
 tire city takes sides in the chariot-races, and the 
 " Greens" like the " Blues" bear the colors of their dri- 
 vers as badges, and conceal daggers in baskets of fruit 
 in order to assassinate each other at their leisure. As 
 formerly in the Floral Games, women appear naked on 
 the stage ; if new regulations impose a girdle on them, 
 Theodora, the bear-keeper's daughter, and the future 
 empress, takes advantage of the prohibition to invent 
 lascivious refinements under the spectators' eyes. And 
 these are the same people that surrender themselves 
 furiously to theological passions. "Ask a man,*' says 
 Gregory of Nazianza, " to change a coin for you and he 
 will inform you how the Son differs fi'om the Father. 
 Demand of another the price of bread and he willreply 
 that the Son is inferior to the Father. Try to ascertain 
 if your bath is ready, and you will be told that the Son 
 is created without substance." They massacre each 
 other on account of these doctrines, and the only point 
 of interest likely to excite a revolt at Constantinople is 
 
 * Compare in Procopius and in Tacitus a dunce's hatred with that 
 of a man. 
 
 f A wealthy widow bequeathed to the Emperor Theophilus three 
 hundred of these characters. 
 
OKIENTAL COEKUPTION. 1B9 
 
 the question of azjmite wafers or the twofold nature of 
 Jesus Christ. The trisagion, simple or complete, is sung 
 simultaneously in the cathedral by two inimical choirs, 
 and the adversaries fall to belaboring each other with 
 stones and clubs. Justinian passes entire nights with 
 graybeards examining ecclesiastical documents while 
 the monks who swarm in the Archipelago equip a fleet 
 in order to defend images against Leo the Isaurian. 
 These circus amateurs and the young beaux who dress 
 like Huns through a fashionable caprice, these courte- 
 zans worn out with vices, these languid voluptuaries 
 who people the summer palaces of the Bosphorus, all 
 fast, form processions, recite religious symbols and 
 demand persecutions of newly installed emperors."^' 
 " Long live the Emperor ! Long live the Empress ! 
 Unearth the bones of the Manichseans ! He who will 
 not curse Severus is a Manichsean ! Cast Severus out ! 
 Cast out the new Judas ! Put down the enemies of the 
 Trinity ! Unearth the bones of the Eutychians ! Cast 
 the Manichaeans out of the Church ! Cast- out the two 
 Stephens !" Incompetent to fight, to rule, to labor or 
 to think they still know how to wrangle and to enjoy 
 themselves. The sophist and the epicurean live on the 
 remnants of human dissolution ; the play of formulas 
 in vacant minds, and the cravings of the senses in 
 degenerate bodies are the last springs of activity, and 
 the two works to which this civilization tends, both 
 marked with the same imprint, both artificial, vast and 
 void, both formed without taste or reason by the rou- 
 tine of logical or industrial processes are, first, the 
 complicated minute scaffolding of the symbolry and 
 distinctions of theology, and, second, the ghttering 
 composite scaffolding of accumulated wealth and ex- 
 travagant luxury. 
 
 * Codinus, notes to page 281. Compare the acclamations of the 
 Senate on the death of Commodus, set forth in the history of Au- 
 gustus. 
 
190 FROM FLOKENCE TO YENICE. 
 
 Whoever could have visited Constantinople before its 
 pillage by the Crusaders would have Tvdtnessed a 
 strange spectacle.* After passing the enclosure of 
 high crenelated walls and the towers which defended 
 the city like a mediaeval fortress, he would have found 
 an image of ancient Imperial Eome consisting of ranges 
 of two-story porticoes traversing the city in every sense 
 and from one extremity to another, domes whose gilded 
 metal glittered in the sunlight, gigantic pillars support- 
 ing colossal equestrian statues, eleven forums, twenty- 
 four baths, so many monuments, palaces, columns and 
 statues that antique civilization, eradicated elsewhere 
 in the world, seems to have collected in this last asylum 
 all its masterpieces and all its treasures. Effigies of 
 victorious athletes brought from Olympus, statues of 
 ancient gods wrested from sanctuaries and figures of 
 emperors multiplied by public adulation, covered the 
 squares and filled the baths and amphitheatres. A 
 bronze Justinian arose on a pillar of seventy cubits 
 high, its base vomiting forth water. A sculptured col- 
 umn within which ran a spiral staircase, bore on its top 
 the equestrian statue of Theodosius in gilded silver. 
 Figures of tortoises, crocodiles and sphinxes placed 
 upon other pillars lifted in the air the emblems of 
 conquered nations. The sombre bronze of colossi, the 
 pallid whiteness of statues gleamed between shafts of 
 porphyry under the variegated marbles of the porticoes, 
 amidst the luminous rotundities of the cupolas, among 
 the long silken robes, embroidered simarres, and the 
 gilded and motley costumes of an innumerable popu- 
 lace. In a marble circus chariots raced around an 
 Egyptian obelisk. Outside, a brazen column around 
 which wound enormous serpents, and farther on, fan- 
 tastic figures of Scylla and Charybdis, the antique boar 
 
 * Du Cange, " Description of Constantinople." All autliorities 
 are here combined. 
 
ANCIENT CONSTANTINOPLE. 15)1 
 
 of Calydon and various marble and bronze monsters, 
 indicated the fetes where Kons, bears, panthers and 
 ■wild asses let into the arena, amused the people with 
 their yells and combats. There on a throne supported 
 by twenty-four columns the Emperor, on Christmas-day, 
 gave the signal, and men of all nations delighted the 
 eyes of the crowd with the novelty of their costumes 
 in form and in color. Farther on an amphitheatre 
 afforded the spectacle of criminals abandoned to wild 
 beasts. Toward the east St. Sophia displayed its 
 glittering domes, its hundred columns of jasper and 
 porphyry, its precious marbles veined with rose, striped 
 with green and starred with purple whose saffron, 
 snowy and metallic tints commingled as in Asiatic 
 flowers among balustrades and capitals of gilded 
 bronze before a silver sanctuary facing a tabernacle 
 of massive gold, near golden vases incrusted with 
 gems and beneath innumerable mosaics decking its 
 walls with lustrous stones and spangles of gold. The 
 dominant characteristics of this church, as throughout 
 the city, were disorderly accumulation and unintelligent 
 wealth. Magnificence was regarded as art and people 
 sought not beauty but bewilderment. Precious materi- 
 als were accumulated and fashioned into barbarous 
 capitals. Greek models whose simplicity they could 
 not comprehend were abandoned for oriental ]3rodigali- 
 ty the display of which could be imitated. The em- 
 peror Theophilus had the palace of the Caliphs of 
 Bagdad copied, and the luxury of his new dwelling, in 
 its oddities and extravagance, announced the puerilities 
 and dotage of a perverted intellect reverting back in 
 old age to the toys of its infancy. In the throne-room 
 a tree of gold sheltered with its branches and leaves a 
 flock of golden birds whose diverse voices imitated the 
 warbling of living birds. At the foot of the platform 
 stood two golden lions of natural size which roared 
 when foreign envoys were presented. The high digni- 
 
192 
 
 FEOM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 taries of the palace formed rows each witli its special 
 costume, its right of precedence, its attitude and other 
 details prescribed in a book written bj the hand of an 
 emperor. Ambassadors bowed their foreheads to the 
 ground three times and while in this prostrate attitude 
 a theatrical machine elevated the prince and his throne 
 to the ceiling in order that he might descend again in a 
 more sumptuous apparel. His bootees were of purple 
 and his robe was starred with jewels ; on his head 
 glittered a high Persian tiara strewn with diamonds, 
 attached to the cheeks by two strings of pearls and sur- 
 mounted by a globe and a cross ; the most skilful 
 coiffeurs had arranged false hair in tiers above his 
 head and his face was painted. Thus bedizened he 
 remained mute and impassible with fixed eyes in the 
 attitude of a god revealing himself to mortal eyes ; he 
 was worshipped as an idol and paraded himself like a 
 manikin.^ 
 
 Some idea of this luxuriousness, and of this worship 
 and society, can be had in the church of San Yitale in 
 Eavenna. It was built in the reign of Justinian and 
 to-day, although defaced on the exterior, miserably 
 repainted within, ruined in many places, or plastered 
 with discordant additions, is still the most byzantine of 
 western churches. It is a singular structure, and in it 
 we find a new type of architecture as remote from Gre- 
 cian as it is from Gothic conceptions. The edifice con- 
 sists of a round dome surmounted by a cupola through 
 which the light descends. On the cornice turns a two- 
 story circular gallery composed of seven smaller half- 
 domes, the eighth, largely expanded, forming an apse 
 and containing the altar, in such a way that the central 
 rotundity is enveloped in an enclosure of smaller ones, 
 the globular form prevailing throughout like the pointed 
 
 * These proceedings and this attitude are already encountered with 
 Constantine and Constance. 
 
THEODORA. 193 
 
 form in mediaeval catliedi'als and tlie square form in an- 
 tique temples. 
 
 In order to support the cupola eight heavy polygonal 
 pillars, connected by round arcades, form a circle, while 
 smaller columns, two and two, bind together the inter- 
 mediate spaces. The effect is peculiar ; the eye accus- 
 tomed to following columns in rows is here surprised 
 with curious intersections, an odd diversity of profiles, 
 with upright forms cut off by round arches and other 
 changing aspects at every turn presented by its discord- 
 ant features. This edifice is the organism of another 
 kingdom, arranged according to unknown symmetries 
 and for other conditions of being, like a lustrous spiral 
 shell for one of the articulata or vertebrata, pompous 
 and strange if you please, but of a less simple type and 
 of a less healthy construction. Degeneracy is visible 
 at once in the capitals of the pillars and columns. They 
 are covered with clumsy flowers and by a coarse net- 
 work ; others, still more changed, present a cypher ; 
 the elegant corinthian capital is so deformed in the 
 hands of these masons and embroiderers as to be noth- 
 ing but a jumble of barbaric designs. The impression 
 is stamped at once on contemplating the mosaics. You 
 see the empress Theodora, the ancient stage-tumbler 
 and cu'cus prostitute, bearing offerings along with her 
 female attendants : the face is pallid and almost gone 
 like that of a consumptive lorette ; there are only enor- 
 mous eyes, eyebrows joined together and a mouth ; the 
 rest of the visage is reduced and thin ; the brow and 
 chin are too small, and the head and body are lost un- 
 der their ornamentation. There is nothing left of her 
 but her ardent gaze and the feverish energy of a mea- 
 gre and satiated courtezan, now enveloped in and over- 
 burdened with the monstrous luxury of an empress ; a 
 glittering diadem displays on her head stories of ruby 
 and emerald stars ; pearls and diamonds are scattered 
 in embroideries upon her robe, and her purple mantle 
 
 9 
 
194 FROM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 and shoes are embroidered with gold. The women 
 around her sparkle like herself, striped with gold and 
 strewn with pearls : the same fulness of eye absorbing 
 the entire face, the same contraction of brow invaded 
 by the hair, the same pallor of the blanched and plas- 
 tered countenance. It matters little whether the mosa- 
 icist is a mechanic copying a recognized type or a 
 painter executing a portrait ; we have here an idea of 
 the woman such as he beheld her or as she represented 
 herself to him, an exhausted lorette bedizened with 
 gold. 
 
 On the other side appears Justinian, with his war- 
 riors on his right and his clergy on the left, a sort of 
 solemn simpleton in a grand brown mantle and purple 
 bootees, decked and gilded like a shrine. He is an inert 
 wooden figure ; his two ministers on the right are about 
 to fall ; and his warriors, with their large oriental buck- 
 lers are marionettes. The artist is fallen as low as his 
 model. 
 
 Back of the apse and on both flanks of the chapel 
 run files of sacred personages : Christ between two an- 
 gels and two saints holding a book ; near by diverse 
 episodes from the Bible ; Abel sacrificing, Abraham en- 
 tertaining his celestial visitants, and, on the vault 
 above, peacocks, urns and animals. The art of group- 
 ing figures is not yet extinct, — at least they know how 
 to arrange a symmetrical composition. One can occa- 
 sionally detect in a head of St. Peter or of St. Paul the 
 remains of an antique type ; but the figures are stiff 
 and jointless, closely resembhng those of feudal tapes- 
 tries. Ever the same large hollow eyes, the same cor- 
 nea, the same brown, livid, deathly visage : Christ 
 seems like a corpse resuscitated from the tomb, the 
 vision of a diseased intellect. 
 
 I visited two or three other churches, Santa Agatha 
 and the Baptistery. The latter is of the fifth century, 
 somewhat like that of Florence, upheld by two stories 
 
THE TOMB OF PLACIDIA. 195 
 
 of arcades, the columns and capitals of wliich seem, 
 through their incongruities, to have been taken from 
 pagan temples ; already in the time of Constantine im- 
 potent architects despoil pagan edifices of their mar- 
 bles and sculptures. Clumsy arabesques cover the 
 walls, and on the vault appears the baptism of Jesus 
 Christ around which the twelve apostles are ranged in 
 a circle, so many figures of gigantic proportions in 
 white tunics and gilded mantles. Their heads are 
 small and of extraordinary length ; their shoulders are 
 narrow and their eyes are buried in their great arched 
 concavities. Nevertheless the ascetic regime has not 
 yet narrowed them down to the same extent as their 
 descendants of the succeeding century at San Vitale ; 
 St. Thomas still preserves a trace of energy; St. John 
 the Baptist, haK-naked, is still half-alive ; his thigh, 
 shoulder and head are sound. You see in the water 
 the entire nudity of Jesus ; excepting his arm the mus- 
 cles still contract. Perhaps the christian artist had 
 some pagan painting before him and his eyes, obscured 
 by the tyranny of mystic ideas, followed contours 
 which his dull trembling hand could not or dared not 
 more than partially trace. 
 
 Three or four other monuments fully demonstrate 
 this decadence. That Placidia, an imperial princess 
 to whom the Goth Ataulf her husband made a wedding 
 present of fifty slaves, each bearing a basin filled with 
 gold and another with precious stones, has her monu- 
 ment near San Yitale. It is a small low temple in the 
 shape of a cross into which one descends by several 
 steps into a sort of sombre reddish subterranean cham- 
 ber decked with mosaics. Kosaces, leaves, fantastic 
 birds, fawns at the foot of the cross, evangelists, a rude 
 figure of the good shepherd surrounded by his lambs, 
 the entire work is savage and of barbaric, extravagant 
 luxuriousness. Several tombs find shelter in the humid 
 shadows ; one of them represents the divine lamb, with 
 
196 FKOM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 a fleece of shells, and under the cross of Placidia's 
 sepulchre you perceive a flock — of what — sheep, horses 
 or asses ? Another cave contains a tomb of the Exarch 
 Isaac who died in the middle of the seventh century. 
 Tou see bas-reliefs here which a modern mason would 
 repudiate ; the three magi dressed as barbarians with 
 the pantaloons, cloaks and caps of German shepherds, a 
 Daniel, and a Lazarus whose head forms a quarter of 
 his body, and peacocks that can scarcely be recognized. 
 All this art is feebleness and decomposition, like a de- 
 cayed building tottering and going to pieces. Ka- 
 venna, at this period, in passing into Lombard hands, 
 only falls from one barbaric stage to another ; whether 
 Byzantine or Gothic the two arts are equivalent. Along 
 with man the soil becomes perverted; the fevers of 
 summer kill the inhabitants, the marshes spread out 
 and the city sinks in the earth. They have been 
 obliged to raise the pavement of San Yitale in order to 
 protect it from water. On visiting San ApoUinare in 
 Classe, half a league from the city, you see on your 
 way a marble column ; this is the remnant of an entire 
 city, the last fragment of a ruined basilica. The church 
 itself seems to be abandoned; it subsists alone in a 
 desert, formerly one of the three quarters of Kavenna ; 
 the crypt is often invaded by the tide, while near it a 
 forest of pines, mute and the sojourn of vipers, has re- 
 placed, on the side of the sea, the cultivation and habi- 
 tations of man. 
 
CHAPTER y. 
 
 FROM BOLOGNA TO PADUA.— ASPECT OF THE COUNTRY.— PADUA.— 
 STATE OF SOCIETY IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY AND OF ART 
 IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.— SANTA MARIA DELL' ARENE AND 
 THE WORKS OF GIOTTO. 
 
 It seems as if tliis country was entirely alluyial. It 
 is an Italian Flanders. On both sides of the railway 
 extends an immense plain, entirely green, filled with 
 cattle and horses pasturing. The vernal sun every- 
 where diffuses its joyous beams ; nothing impedes them 
 except, on the horizon, a belt of slender trees like a 
 delicate silken fringe ; the broad cupola of the sky is 
 of the tenderest azure. 
 
 The soil is thoroughly soaked with water and, soon, the 
 canals commence. After leaving Ferrara the road 
 forms an elevated causeway protected from inunda- 
 tions ; ditches abound everywhere, and pools of water 
 filled with rushes ; on the right is the silvery surface 
 of the Po, so placid that it seems to be motionless ; 
 thus does it glide along amply expanded amidst the 
 universal freshness among polished sands and islands 
 covered with wood. You travel along a straight road 
 compact and clean as in Flanders, between poplars of 
 a charming green. The trees are all budding ; spring 
 as far as the eye can see is diffusing itself over all 
 things. 
 
 Often, at the end of a long white ribbon of road rises 
 a bell-tower, and then a cluster of houses appears on a 
 flat piece of gTOund; this is a village; the houses, plas- 
 tered white and the i-uddy bricks of the campanile 
 relieve sharply on the sky. Excepting the light it 
 might be called a Dutch landscape. Calm and spark- 
 
198 
 
 FKOM FLOEENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 ling water is everywhere visible and, as evening ap- 
 proaches, the frogs croak. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the left, rises a lofty blue barrier, a 
 drapery of mountains fringed with snow and relieving 
 with exquisite delicacy ; the sky arches clear and pale 
 and the young verdure overspreads the plain with an 
 almost equally delicate tint. 
 
 Padua, April 20. — Here I am in an Austrian country. 
 One would scarcely believe it on seeing the books and 
 engravings displayed in the shops of the booksellers, 
 the most prominent being "le Maudit," the "Yie de 
 Jesus" by Renan and by Strauss, (the latter translated 
 by Littre,) Yictor Hugo, Hegel, etc. One engraving 
 represents Garibaldi asleep, and Alexander Dumas 
 contemplating him ; Garibaldi lies on a floor and near 
 him is a pitcher of water and a crust of bread, 
 the epigraph, by Alexander Dumas, comparing him to 
 Cincinnatus. — The bookseller tells me, with a smile, 
 that "le Maudit" is prohibited in Italian, but is not 
 yet forbidden in French ; portraits of Garibaldi are in- 
 terdicted but not lithographs that contain a number of 
 figures. Under this systematic administration the law 
 is executed to the letter, and before making any inno- 
 vations instructions are awaited from Vienna. 
 
 Proceeding onward we find a city in good order, 
 provincial in aspect, provided with arcades and a green 
 grassy prato. Its tranquillity, its respectable appear- 
 ance and its gTay-coated sentinels remind the traveller 
 that here, as in every well-governed city, the people 
 must eat well, sleep better, take ice-creams at cafes, 
 amuse themselves without disturbances and attend 
 lectures at a university which create no excitement ; 
 the only matter of serious import to the inhabitants is 
 the payment of their taxes on the day prescribed. 
 Thereupon he ponders over what it was in the middle- 
 ages ; on its podestat Ezzelin the terror of children ; on 
 the sufferings of its nobles who day and night screeched 
 
UNIYERSALITY OF ART IN ITALY. 
 
 199 
 
 with tortures; on tliose condemned young seigneurs 
 who escaped from their guards, stabbed their judge 
 and ripped up the face of their persecutor with their 
 teeth ; on its sanguinary stmggle and the romantic 
 adventures of the Carrari. And here, as at Bologna, 
 Florence, Sienna, Perugia, and Pisa, he cannot avoid 
 contrasting the terrible, hazardous and energetic life of 
 feudal cities and principalities with the orderly pre- 
 cision and tameness of modern monarchies. 
 
 Here all that remains of the picturesque and the 
 grand proceeds from the reaction of this great epoch. 
 In every country a rich invention in the field of art is 
 preceded by indomitable energy in the field of action. 
 A father has fought, founded and suffered, heroically 
 and tragically ; the son gathers from the lips of the old 
 heroic and tragic traditions, and, protected by the 
 efforts of a previous generation, less menaced by 
 danger, installed on paternal foundations, he imagines, 
 expresses, narrates, sculptures or paints the mighty 
 deeds of which his heart, still throbbing, feels the last 
 vibration. ^ This is why works of art are so numerous 
 in Italy ; each town has its own ; there are so many 
 that the visitor is overwhelmed by them ; one would be 
 obliged to rewrite his descriptions constantly. I am 
 quite content not to go to Modena, Brescia or Mantua ; 
 all I regret is Parma. I shall leave Italy with but a 
 partial idea of Correggio ; but I shall compensate my- 
 seK with the Yenetian masters. 
 
 Even at Padua, which is a second-class city, it is 
 necessary to make a choice. We go accordingly to the 
 
 * Take, for example, the generation between 1820 and 1830 after 
 the Revohition and the wars of the Empire; Dutch art after the 
 struggle of the Netherlands with Spain ; Gothic architecture and 
 mediaeval poesy after the consolidation of feudal society ; the litera- 
 ture of the XVII centmy in France after the establishment of a regu- 
 lar monarchy ; Greek tragedy, architecture and sculpture after the 
 defeat of the Persians, etc. 
 
200 FEOM FLOEENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 church of Santa Maria dell' Arena, situated at the end 
 of the city in a quiet corner. It is a private chapel, 
 and stands in a large bourgeois garden, enclosed by 
 walls, somewhat neglected, where vines on a green 
 grass-plot are climbing up the fruit-trees. A servant 
 pushes back a bolt, and the visitor is introduced into a 
 nave which Giotto (1304) has covered with paintings. 
 He was twenty-eight years old, and he has here por- 
 trayed in thirty-seven great frescoes, the entire story pf 
 Christ and the Virgin. No monument better repre- 
 sents the dawn of the Italian Eenaissance. Several 
 traces of barbarism still remain ; for example, he does 
 not know how to render all actions ; in his " Christ at 
 the Sepulchre," the attendants expressing their grief 
 open their mouths Avith a grimace, and his " Hell,'* like 
 that of Bernardo Orcagna, is filled with the grotesque. 
 The big hairy Satan is a scarecrow like those of our 
 ancient mysteries, and inferior demons are consuming 
 or sawing up small naked bodies with meagre legs 
 heaped together as in a salting-tub. Near by the re- 
 suscitated leaving their tombs, have spare and twisted 
 claws, and, what is still more repulsive, the huge dis- 
 proportioned heads of tadpoles ; the quaint and impo- 
 tent fancy of the middle ages peers out and flourishes 
 here as on the doors of the cathedrals. Jacomino of 
 Verona, a minor friar of this epoch, described these 
 torments of the damned with still greater triviahty. 
 Satan, according to him, commands " the wicked to be 
 roasted like a pig on an iron turnspit ;" then, when the 
 charred figure is brought to him, he replies : " Begone, 
 tell that miserable cook that the morsel is not well 
 done ; put it back on the fire and let it stay there." 
 Dante alone could free himself from this popular buf- 
 foonery and endow his condemned ones with souls as 
 proud as his own. He was here in Padua the same 
 time as Giotto and, it is said, stayed at his house, both 
 being friends. But the domain of painting is not the 
 
GIOTTO. 201 
 
 same as that of poesy, and ^\liat one accomplislied 
 with words the other could not accomplish with colors. 
 People were not yet familiar enough with the muscles 
 and energies of the human organism to combine, like 
 Michael Angelo, in a few colossal and contorted figures 
 the tragic elements which Dante displayed in his nu- 
 merous visions and in his lugubrious scenery. More- 
 over, the talent and humor of the painter were not 
 those of the poet ; Giotto was as gay as Dante was 
 sad ; his fine genius, facile invention, his love of noble- 
 ness and pathos, led him toward ideal personages and 
 affecting expressions, and it is in this field, peculiar to 
 him, that here, for the first time, with extraordinary 
 richness and success, he innovated and created. 
 
 Here, for the first time in a fresco, we find almost 
 antique heads ; it is the same stroke of genius as that 
 of Nicholas of Pisa : after a lapse of fifty years paint- 
 ing and sculj)ture unite, and healthy, regular beauty 
 reappears on the walls of churches as on the tombs of 
 the saints. Around Christ on the Cross and in the 
 Last Judgment, the noble heads of the saints have the 
 solidity of structure and the firm chins of the Greek 
 statues : nothing can be graver and simpler than the 
 draperies, and nothing more beautiful than the figures 
 of the ten seraphims crowned with glories. Extending 
 along the entire nave, at the base of the wall, is a range 
 of ideal women representing, in gray, the different vir- 
 tues, all robust and calm, ample and finely draped ; two 
 especially. Charity and Hope, seem to be Roman em- 
 presses ; another. Justice, possesses a face of the 
 sweetest and purest type. You feel that the painter 
 lovingly seeks after and discovers perfection of form ; 
 his Christs are not portraits ; their features are too reg- 
 ular and too serene; one of them in the "Marriage 
 Feast at Cana," in a wine-colored mantle reminds one 
 of that which Raphael has placed in his " Transfigura- 
 tion." The artist, evidently, does not paint fi'om the 
 
202 FEOM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 model before him but, like Eaphael, " according to a 
 certain conception of his own." This inventiveness is 
 observable on all. sides, in his landscapes, in his archi- 
 tecture, in the careful composition of his groups, and, 
 above all, in the expressions. Some there are which 
 come direct from the heart, so spontaneous, so true 
 that none more genuine can be found. At the foot of 
 the cross the Yirgin in a blue hood, her brow wrinkled 
 and pale, swoons and jet, through a supreme effort, re- 
 mains erect.^ The Magdalen extends her arms to the 
 resuscitated Christ, vdth stupor and tenderness, as if 
 desirous of advancing and yet remaining fixed to the 
 ground. Lazarus, enveloped in his bandages, and 
 rigid like a mummy in its coffer, but erect and with an- 
 imated eyes, is an overpowering apparition. — This man 
 possessed genius, ideas, feeling everything, save science 
 which is the fruit of time, and finish in his execution ; 
 his drawings were generalizations, consisting simply of 
 outlines and folds of drapery ; in addi'ess, and in the 
 art of the hand he was deficient. In a neighboring 
 church, that of the Eremitani, are some frescoes by 
 Mantegna, quite perfect, admirable in relief and of 
 studied correctness; this is what a century and a half 
 would have taught Giotto; what a painter he would 
 have been had he mastered such processes ! Perhaps 
 the world would have seen a second Eaphael. 
 
 * This reminds us of one of Corneille's lines describing his Roman 
 heroine suddenly falling like a statue : 
 
 "Non, je ne pleure pas, madame, mais je meurs." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PADUA, CONTimiED.— SAN GIUSTINA.— SAN ANTONIO.— THE SCULP- 
 TORS AND DECORATORS OF THE FIFTEENTH AND SIXTEENTH 
 CENTURIES.— THE MUNICIPAL SYSTEM COMPARED WITH THE 
 EXTENDED GOVERNMENTS OF MODERN TIMES.— THE ADVANTA- 
 GES AND DRAWBACKS OP CONTEMPORARY CIVILIZATION. 
 
 We return to the Prate, wliich is green and radiant 
 with Spring. A canal crosses it and statues are ranged 
 among the trunks of the trees. Around it rise high 
 walls of red brick ; blue domes profile themselves in 
 powerful masses against the pure blue sky, and, on the 
 cornices of the churches, birds are caroUing in the midst 
 of the solitude and the silence. 
 
 In front, is San Giustina and its eight domes. Al- 
 though built in the sixteenth century the byzantine 
 form, with its rotundities, prevails. Spherical projec- 
 tions form a circle around the cupolas ; within, between 
 round arcades, the roof hollows out into concave buck- 
 lers, its ample vault expanding like an interior firma- 
 ment filled with hght. One comprehends immediately 
 here the expressive force of lines. According as the 
 ruling form differs so does the general sentiment differ. 
 The aqiate angle and upspringing ogive excite mystic 
 emotion ; the right angle and the solid square pose of 
 the Greek construction suggest an idea of calm serenity ; 
 the byzantine imperial or modern curve of the round 
 arch gives a decorative aspect. Such is the impression 
 made by this church ; with its portal of black, red and 
 white marbles, its square pilasters, its projecting entab- 
 latures, its Roman capitals, its grand proportions and 
 its fine light it imposes on you not without a certain 
 degree of quaintness and pomposity. Behind the 
 
204 FROM FLOEENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 choir, and by the hand of Veronese, a deluge of little 
 angels, amidst strong contrasts of light and shadow, is 
 precipitating itself on the spot where the saint, in a 
 splendid robe of yellow silk, surrenders himself to the 
 executioner about to sever his throat. The rest of the 
 edifice is filled with theatrical sculptures, gesticulating 
 martyrs, rumpled draperies and writhing flesh-forms in 
 the style of Bernini, only still more insipid. The 
 grandiose of the sixteenth century thus terminates with 
 the affectation of the eighteenth. 
 
 But the principal monument, the most celebrated for 
 its sanctity and the richest in works of art, is the church 
 of San Antonio. On the solitary square surrounding 
 it stands the bronze equestrian statue of the condottiero 
 Guattemalata, executed by Donatello, and the first that 
 was cast in Italy (1453). In his cuirass, with his head 
 bare and his baton of command in his hand, he sits 
 firmly on a stout-limbed charger, a vigorous animal for 
 use and for war, and not for show ; his bust is full and 
 square ; his great two-handed sword hangs below his 
 horse's belly ; his long spurs with big rowels can bury 
 themselves deep in the flesh when a perilous leap is to 
 be made over a fosse, or to surmount a palisade ; he 
 is a rude warrior ; and as he sits there in his harness 
 you see that, like Sf orza his adversary, he has passed 
 his life in the saddle. Here, as at Florence, Donatello 
 dares to risk the entire truth, the crude details that 
 seem ungracious to the vulgar, the faithful imit^ion of 
 the actual person with his own features and professional 
 traits ; the result of which is, here as in Florence, a 
 fragment of living humanity, snatched breathing out of 
 his century, and prolonging, through its originality and 
 energy, the life of that century down to our own. 
 
 As to the church it is very peculiar, it being an Italian- 
 Gothic structure complicated with Byzantine cupolas ; 
 round domes, pointed spires, little columns surmounted 
 with ogive arcades, a fa9ade borrowed from the Eoman 
 
JESUrriC TASTE. 205 
 
 basilica, a balcony modelled after Venetian palaces 
 fuse together in one composite medley the ideas of 
 three or four centuries, and of three or four countries. 
 The great saint of the city, St. Anthony, lies here, one 
 of the leading characters of the tweKth century, a 
 mystic preacher who addressed himseK to fishes as St. 
 Francis did to birds, tlie fishes flocking to him in shoals 
 and signifying to him that they comprehended him. 
 The sanctuary contains his tongue and chin ; at the 
 most flourishing period of Jesuitic devotion, in 1690, it 
 "was decorated by Parodi with an incredible expenditui'e 
 of magnificence and affectation. The windows are em- 
 bossed with silver, and a profusion of gay and animated 
 marble figures mth arch expressions and suffused e^^es 
 cover the walls with their sentimental graces. Back of 
 the chapel a legion of angels bear away the saint in 
 glory. There are perhaps sixty of them crowded and 
 piled together like a swarm of cupids on a boudoir 
 ceihng, with trim legs, smooth Httle bodies, pouting 
 visages, demure, and with plump dimpled cheeks ; 
 some, leaning on the cross have the lively and tender 
 smile of a grisette asleep and dreaming. The whole 
 chapel seems to be an enormous console of ornamental 
 marble, and, to complete the impression, here and 
 there throughout the church, are gallant virgins coquet- 
 tishly lowering their coifs and playing with their fat 
 hamhinos. The vapid devotion of the decadence evi- 
 dently usurped for its own use the sanctuarj^ of simple 
 old piety and overspread the popular faith with its own 
 veneering and varnish. 
 
 Other chapels show another age of the same senti- 
 ment ; one, on the left, dedicated to the saint, was built 
 and decorated by ten sculptors of the sixteenth century, 
 Riccio, Sansovino, Falconetto, Aspetti, Giovanni di 
 Milano, Tullio Lombardo and others. Richness of 
 imagination, the superb sentiment of a pagan, natural 
 life, the entire spirit of the renaissance here shows itself 
 
206 FEOM FLORENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 in striking characteristics. The fagade of white marble, 
 sewn with caissons of colored marble framed by black 
 marble, resembles an antique triumphal arch. Marble 
 columns covered with bas-reliefs and surmounted by 
 round arcades give to it a monumental entrance. Shell 
 niches, friezes of foliage, bucklers, horses, naked men, 
 swans, fishes and cupids expose in the background the 
 full diversity and breadth of heroic or animated nature. 
 A multitude of petty sculptured figures embroider the 
 walls and pillars ; here the naked Fates among grapes 
 and flowers, with a somewhat lank and hteral imitation 
 of the human figure for the first time comprehended ; 
 there a resurrection in which a studied aim at pictur- 
 esque form mingles with the poetic sentiment of ideal 
 form. And, as if to testify to the ardent faith which 
 ever endures the same through all artistic transforma- 
 tions, you find amidst this imposing sensual decoration 
 hundreds of ex-votos, in the shape of crutches, little 
 ten- sous pictures and a quantity of charity boxes ap- 
 peaHng for contributions. 
 
 Nothing is wanting here for the assemblage on one 
 spot of the entire series of human sentiments. Facing 
 this monument built by the pagan renaissance, is a 
 chapel of the fourteenth century, that of St. FeHx, ogival, 
 painted and gilded, whose niches, similar to trefoils or 
 bishops' bonnets, place gothic art before the eye bright- 
 ened with oriental reflections through its proximity to 
 Venice. It is red and sombre ; its azure vaults deflect 
 into small arches ; arabesques run over the entire arch- 
 way ; sculptured stalls with gilded canopies divide into 
 finials; ancient paintings by Altichierri and Jacopo 
 Avanzi, figures draped and armed as in the middle 
 ages, crowd together stiff, as yet, and awkward, among 
 gothic castles covered with Saracenic ornamentation. 
 Venice, at this time, had a foothold in the Orient, and 
 at Cyprus she alone carried on the christian crusade. 
 
 But what makes this church a really unique monument, 
 
TOMBS. 
 
 207 
 
 a memoiial of all ages, are the tombs it contains. In the 
 church of the Erematani I had just seen those of the 
 Carrari. Ko work is better fitted to make us compre- 
 hend the tastes and ideas of a centurj^ ; the architect's 
 hand has labored at it as well as the sculptor's, and 
 whatever diversity there may be in the monuments all 
 symbolize the same idea, one of simple and prime sig- 
 nificance, that of death, in such a way that the specta« 
 tor follows in their differences the different modes in 
 which man regarded the most formidable moment of 
 life, the most poignant, the most universal and the most 
 intelligible of his interests. The series here is com- 
 plete. A lady deceased in 1427 sleeps, reclining in an 
 alcove ; underneath her three small figures in a shell 
 niche gravely meditate, and their heavy heads, their 
 attitudes and their drapery are as simple as the funereal 
 chamber in which her dead body reposes. Near this are 
 tombs of the sixteenth century, that of Cardinal Bem- 
 bo, a grand figure somewhat bald with a superb beard 
 and the spirited air of a portrait by Titian ; the other, 
 as grandiose and pompous as a triumph, that of the 
 Yenetian general Contarini. A frieze of vessels, cui- 
 rasses, arms and bucklers winds around the courses of 
 marble. Shouting tritons and caryatides of chained 
 captives display the emblems and insignia of maritime 
 victory. A series of nude bodies, and heads having a 
 simple air rise upward, possessing the vigor and frank- 
 ness of expression characteristic of a healthy art in its 
 bloom and vitality. On the sides are displayed two fig- 
 ures of women, one young and spirited in a close-fitting 
 tunic, the breasts salient, and the other aged and weep- 
 ing but not less robust and muscular. On the top of 
 the pyramid a beautiful Virtue with downcast- eyes, but 
 with leg and breast exposed, seems like one of the 
 youthful and glorious divinities of Veronese. You con- 
 tinue on, and suddenly, at the end of the seventeenth 
 century, the change in taste appears ; art becomes de- 
 
-08 FEOM FLOEENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 votional, worldly, pretentious and vapid. A tomb of 
 . 1684 combines figures half naked or cuirassed in pagan 
 panoply, but bending over, affected, and in a flutter of 
 curtains, garlands and skulls. Another of 1690, is 
 a scaffolding of men, angels, busts and pennons, be- 
 ginning with a desiccated skull and crossbones and 
 ending with, at the top, a winged skeleton blowing a 
 blast on a trumpet. After the plain memorial repre- '^ 
 senting actual death comes the pagan memorial over- 
 spreading death with heroic pomp ; then the devotional 
 memorial which puts into the same parade the horrors 
 of the sepulchre and all mundane elegancies. 
 
 How gladly one reverts back to the works of the Ee- 
 naissance ! How noble, how vigorous, how grand man 
 seems between gothic insufficiency and modern arti- 
 ficiality ! The rest of the day I passed in the choir. 
 Large bronze statuettes stand on a bronze balustrade 
 near bronze gates. Bronze carpets the enclosure, cov- 
 ers the altar, bristles in bas-reliefs, rises on the pillars, 
 and mounts upward in candelabras. Crowds of ener- 
 getic figures display themselves everywhere in multi- 
 plied bosses on the sombre and lustrous tints of the 
 gleaming metal. Here the apostles of Aspetti (1593) 
 through their proud stature and disordered drapery, 
 seem the grandchildren of Michael xlngelo ; there a can- 
 delabra by Kiccio (1488) twice a man's height, with a 
 base three feet square, rears itself upward in tier upon 
 tier of figures ; we cannot imagine greater richness of 
 invention, so many and such diverse scenes, such luxury 
 of ornamentation, such a complete world both christian 
 and pagan magnificently combined in a single mass and 
 yet distributed with so much art that every tier en- 
 hances the value of the others, its swarm of details pro- 
 ducing groupings and its multitudes a unity. On the 
 square sides are displayed stories of the New Testament, 
 the interment of Jesus amidst the despairing cries and 
 gestures of a weeping crowd, and, again, Jesus in limbo, 
 
BENAISSANCE FANCY. 209 
 
 amongst the stout bodies and fine naked limbs of re- 
 deemed sinners. On the cornices, and, here and there, 
 on the angles and mouldings are jDagan forms framing 
 in the christian tragedy. Renaissance fancy has full 
 play in a profusion of tritons, horses, twining ser- 
 pents and torsos of women and children. Centaurs 
 bear naked cupids on their cruppers brandishing torch- 
 es ; other cupids sport with masks or hold musical in- 
 struments ; fawns and satyrs bound amidst the fohage ; 
 invention overflows, all this triumph of natural life, 
 these panathenaic poesies of an unfettered creative hu- 
 man imagination displaying their action and exuber- 
 ance in order to deck the candelabra which bears the 
 pascal taper. ^ 
 
 What the worker in bronze did in those days is in- 
 comparable. This art, that of the goldsmith, antici- 
 pates painting a century, and attains to its perfection 
 while the other is just beginning. Master of all its 
 processes it encroaches on those of its rivals. Knowl- 
 edge of types, familiarity with the nude, the movement 
 of draperies, study of expression, of composition, of per- 
 spective, — nothing is lacking. The modeller's thumb 
 dispatches a picture complete, — thirty or forty figures 
 grouped on different planes, active and excited multi- 
 tudes, the entire human tragedy spread out on the 
 public square between porticoes and temples.* Two 
 by Donatello on the altar panels,t and twelve by 
 Yelano and Andrea Briosco on the panels of the choir, 
 for fecundity of genius, boldness of conception, the 
 management and arrangement of crowds, surpass any- 
 thing I have ever encountered. Judith and the entire 
 army of Holofernes are massacred and put to flight ; 
 Samson is wrenching away the columns of the temple 
 
 * See the *' Martyrdom of St. Lawrence" by Baccio Bandinelli iu 
 tlie well-known engraving. 
 t 1446-1449. 
 
210 
 
 FROM FLOEENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 crumbling under its crowded galleries ; Solomon is 
 seen under three stories of architecture surrounded by 
 the assembled people ; the ten tribes of Israelites 
 crowd around the brazen serpent their bodies writhing 
 and swollen with the bite of reptiles, suppliant women 
 handing forward their infants to be cured, wounded 
 men in heaps and in contortions, all in a vast land- 
 scape of rocks, palm-trees and flocks which diffuses the 
 grandeur of a tranquil nature around the agitations of 
 suffering humanity. All these souls and bodies live, 
 and their energy reacts and communicates itself to the 
 spectator. One feels exalted after a contemplation of 
 them. Hence the nobleness of this art. Let the por- 
 traits and history of the men of this day be contem- 
 plated and we find that they fought the battle of life 
 well, and that among artists, this exalts them to the 
 highest rank. Let man strive and suffer, be wounded 
 and downstricken, it matters not ; it is his lot and he 
 is made for trial and struggle. The great thing is to 
 struggle bravely, to will, to work, and to create ; the 
 great source of action in him must not be wasted in a 
 stagnant pool or in an administrative canal; it must 
 flow on and steadily expand, not like a capricious 
 torrent but hke a broad river ; the current once free 
 should flow always, disturbed and tempestuous if 
 necessary, but fertilizing, inexhaustible, and, fi^om 
 time to time, bright beneath celestial splendor and 
 joy. At the last hour he may disappear in the sea ; 
 his career is over. At each turn of the century death 
 swallows up and disperses the living generation ; but 
 it has no hold on its past. The dead may rest tran- 
 quilly; their work is done and their posterity in its 
 turn, clearing its own pathway, must be content, when, 
 after similar labor it lies down in similar repose. 
 
 jOn contemplating the great works which fill all Italy, 
 on pondering over the decadence which followed their 
 production, on remarking how greatly the generation 
 
MODERN STATES. 
 
 211 
 
 which produced them surpassed ours in active vigor 
 and in spontaneous invention, on reflecting that, thus 
 far, all civilizations have flourished only to wither 
 and to turn to dust, one asks himself whether that in 
 which we live will not meet with the same fate and 
 whether the great monument which protects us will not 
 in its turn provide fragments for some unknown con- 
 struction in which a renewed humanity will secure pro- 
 tection of a superior order. Sentiment, in this connec- 
 tion, must not be listened to ; our response must come 
 from history and fi'om analysis. Here are the founda- 
 tions of our edifice, and, at first view, they seem to 
 guarantee its solidity. 
 
 The States of modern times are not simple cities 
 provided with a territory and which extermination or 
 conquest may destroy, Hke Sienna, Florence, Carthage, 
 Crotona or Athens. They embrace thirty or forty mil- 
 lions of men forming distinct races and nations, and, 
 so regarded, may resist invasions. Napoleon could not 
 make a subject of Spain, so weak, nor put down Ger- 
 many, so divided. When in 1815 William Humboldt 
 proposed to partition France, too strong as he thought, 
 the allies drew back, aware that at the end of twenty- 
 five years the pieces would of themselves again unite. 
 Look at the difficulties of Russia in these days in re- 
 spect to a third of Poland. A garrison of five hundred 
 thousand men, the half of a nation, is necessary to re- 
 strain the other half, and the profit is not Avorth the 
 expense. 
 
 In the second place, the European states are formed 
 of diverse races and nations ; hence one may replace 
 or restore its neighbor if its neighbor falls. When 
 Portugal, Spain and Italy fell in the seventeenth cen- 
 tury, England, France and Holland resumed and con- 
 tinued in their own way and for their own account the 
 work they began. If in the course of a hundred years 
 France should become a common administrative camp, 
 
213 
 
 FKOM FLORENCE TO YE^'ICE. 
 
 tlie protestant nations of England, Germany, tlie 
 United States and Australia would individually develop 
 and their civilization flow back on France at the end of 
 two or three centuries, as that of France, after two or 
 three centuries, now flows back on Italy and Spain. A 
 monarchy, on the contrary, like that of China, a the- 
 ocracy like that of India, a group of cities Hke Greece, 
 a gTand unique organization hke the Roman Empire, 
 wholly perish for the lack of equal and independent 
 neighbors to subsist after them and renew their exist- 
 ence. 
 
 Three-quarters of the labor of humanity is now done 
 by machinery, and the number of machines like the 
 perfectibility of processes, is constantly increasing. 
 Manual labor diminishes in the same ratio, and, conse- 
 quently, the number of thinking beings increases. We 
 are accordingly exempt from the scourge which de- 
 stroyed the Greek and Roman world, that is to say the 
 reduction of nine-tenths of the human race to the con- 
 dition of beasts of burden, overtasked, and perishing, 
 their destruction or gradual debasement allowing only 
 a small number of the elite in each state to subsist. 
 Almost all of the republics of Greece and of ancient 
 and modern Italy^ have perished for want of citizens. 
 At the present day the machinery now substituted for 
 subjects and slaves prepares multitudes of intelligent 
 beings. 
 
 In addition to this, again, the experimental and pro- 
 gressive sciences are now recognized as the sole legiti- 
 mate mistresses of the human intellect, and the only 
 safe guides for human activity. This is unique in the 
 world. Among the Islamites, under the Ptolemies, and 
 
 * Sparta perished di oXiyav^pooitiav, says Aristotle. At Flor- 
 ence, tliere Trere but 2,500 voting citizens in tlie time of Savonarola. 
 See Venice also. At the commencement of the sixteenth century the 
 number of citizens enjoying political rights of all kinds in Italy was 
 estimated at 18,000. 
 
PROGRESS OF SCIENCE. 
 
 213 
 
 in Italy in the sixteenth century, the sciences were 
 confined to a small circle of the curious who might at 
 any time have been extinguished by a proscription. 
 Now they have obtained control, and as they have visi- 
 bly ameliorated practical life public assent and all pri- 
 vate interests rally around them. Moreover, as their 
 methods are fixed, and their discoveries constantly 
 augmenting, it may be demonstrated that they will go on 
 indefinitely renewing and completing the human under- 
 standing. Other developments of the mind, art, 
 poetr}^, and religion may fail, diverge or languish ; but 
 this one cannot fail to endure, to diffuse itself, and to 
 suggest to man forever concrete views with which to 
 regulate his faiths and govern his actions. 
 
 These very sciences, having finally embraced in their 
 domain moral and political affairs, and daily pene- 
 trating into education, transform the idea entertained 
 by man of society and of hfe : from a militant brute 
 who regards others as prey and their prosperity as a 
 danger, they transform him into a pacific being who 
 considers others as auxiliaries and their prosperity as 
 an advantage. Every blade of wheat produced, and 
 every yard of cloth manufactured in England dimin- 
 ishes so much the more the price I pay for my 
 wheat and for my cloth. It is for my interest there- 
 fore not only not to kill the Englishman who pro- 
 duces the wheat, or manufactures the cloth, but to 
 encourage him to produce and manufacture twice as 
 much more. 
 
 Never has human civilization encountered similar 
 conditions. For this reason it is to be hoped that the 
 civiHzation now existing, more solidly based than others, 
 will not decay and melt away like the others ; at least 
 there is reason to believe that amidst partial convul- 
 sions and failures, as in Poland and in Turkey, it will 
 subsist and perfect itself on the principal areas whereon 
 its constructions are now seen rising. 
 
214 
 
 FROM FLOEENCE TO VENICE. 
 
 But, on the other hand, the magnitude of states, the 
 development of industry, the organization of the 
 sciences, in consolidating the edifice, prove detrimental 
 to the individuals who live in it, every man finding him- 
 self belittled through the enormous extension of the 
 system in which he is comprised. 
 
 Societies, in the first place, in order to become more 
 stable have become too large, and most of them in 
 order the better to resist foreign attack have too 
 greatly subordinated themselves to their governments. 
 Among the men who compose them nine out of ten, 
 and commonly ninety-nine out of a hundred, do not 
 concern themselves about public affairs ; they are in- 
 different to general passions, and enter into the com- 
 munity like beams in a building, or at least vegetate, 
 discontented and inert, in petty pleasures and in petty 
 ideas after the fashion of parasite mosses on an old 
 roof. Compare this life to that of the Athenians in 
 the fifth century, and to that of the Florentines in 
 the fourteenth. 
 
 Moreover, in order to become efficacious, industry 
 has become too subdivided and man, transformed into 
 a drudge, becomes a revolving wheel. Fourier used to 
 say that man, in the ideal partnership of the globe, on 
 finding that little pies had not yet arisen to a level with 
 civilization, would collect two caravans of a hundred 
 thousand culinary artists on a suitable spot, say on 
 the banks of the Euphrates, and there compete under 
 grand combinations of genius and of experiences ; 
 the victor on receiving a centime per head for every 
 person, would become very rich and, moreover, receive 
 a medal. This is the grotesque image of our indus- 
 trialism. Consider, in a universal exposition, the enor- 
 mous effort directed to the perfecting of wash-bowls, 
 boots and elastic cushions, along Avith their propor- 
 tionate recompenses. It is sad to see a hundred . 
 thousand families employing their arms and thirty 
 
THE EFFECT OF SCIENTIFIC PEOGEESS. 215 
 
 superior men expending their genius in efforts to in- 
 crease the histre of a piece of muslin ! 
 
 In the last place, science, in order to become experi- 
 mental and sure, being subdivided into prorinces grow- 
 ing smaller and smaller, the truly thoughtful, who are 
 the inventors, are obliged to restrict themselves each to 
 a special compartment, and there live confined to a 
 chemical or philological recess like a cook in his kitchen. 
 In the mean time, facts having accumulated to a vast 
 extent the human head becomes overcharged ; there is 
 no longer an Aristotle : those who desire to attain to 
 an approximative idea of the whole are forced to 
 abandon the life of the body and overburden their 
 brain ; the contagion spreading through the rest of 
 society, a too highly developed cerebral life undermines 
 the health both physical and moral. Compare the 
 German doctors, the men of letters, even our pale and 
 polished men of the world, all our amateurs, aU our 
 learned specialists, to Greek citizens, — philosophers, 
 artists, warriors and gymnasts, — to those Italians of 
 the sixteenth century who each possessed, besides a 
 mihtary education, five or six arts or talents, and, many 
 of them, a perfect encyclopaedia. 
 
 The work of man, in brief, has become stable because 
 it has expanded ; but it has expanded only because 
 man has become special, and a specialty 7zaiTo?i;5. Hence 
 it is that we now see the great works declining which 
 demand the natural comprehension and lively senti- 
 ment of a complete whole, that is to say, art, religion 
 and poetry. The way the Greeks and the Italians 
 of the Renaissance regarded life was at once better 
 and worse ; it produced a civilization less enduring, 
 less comfortable, and less humane, but more complete 
 souls and more men of genius. 
 
 For these evils there are palliatives, perhaps, but no 
 remedies, for they are produced and maintained 
 through the very structure of the society, of the Indus- 
 
216 
 
 FROM FLORENCE TO YENICE. 
 
 try and of the science upon wliicli we live. The same 
 sap produces, on the one hand, the fruit, and on the 
 other the poison ; whoever desires to taste one must 
 drink the other.* In this, as in every other constitu- 
 tional complaint, the physician dresses the ulcer, recom- 
 mends soothing appHcations, opposes the disease symp- 
 tom by symptom, warns his patient to avoid excesses 
 and, above all, enjoins patience. Nothing more can 
 be done, for he is incurable and to cure him would 
 be equivalent to recasting him. In writing this, what do 
 I show myself but an exemplification of the evil ? To 
 travel as a critic with eyes fixed on history, to analyze, 
 reason and define instead of Uving gaily and creating 
 "s^dth imaginative power, what is it but the mania of a 
 man of letters and the routine of an anatomist ? 
 
BOOK y. 
 
 TENICE. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 FEOM PADUA TO VENICE.— THE LAGUNES.— PROMENADE IN YEN 
 ICE.— THE GRAND CANAL.— THE PIAZZA DI SAN MARCO.— THE 
 DUCAL PALACE.— " VENICE, QU'EEN," by PAUL VERONESE.— DAY 
 AND NIGHT LANDSCAPES ON THE SEA.— SQUARES, STREETS, 
 FIGURES AND CAFES. 
 
 Apj^U 20, 1864. — The railroad enters on the lagunes, 
 and suddenly the landscape assumes a pecuhar color 
 and aspect. There is no grass or trees ; all is sea and 
 sand ; as far as the eye can see banks emerge, low and 
 flat, some of them half-washed by the waves. A light 
 breeze wrinkles the glittering pools, and gentle undula- 
 tions die away at intervals on the uniform strand. The 
 setting sun throws over it purple tints, which the swell 
 of a wave now darkens, and now makes changeable. 
 In this continuous motion all tones are transformed and 
 melt away. Dark and brick-hued depths become blue 
 or green, according to the sea which covers them ; ac- 
 cording to the aspects of the sky the water itself changes, 
 all mingling together amid bright coruscations and 
 golden stars bespangling the light waves, under silvery 
 threads fringing the falling crests, under broad illumina- 
 tions and sudden flashes reflected fi'om the side of a 
 billow. The domain and the habits of the eye are trans- 
 formed and renewed. The sense of vision encounters 
 another world. Instead of the strong, clean and dry 
 tints of solid earth, it is a flickering, a softening, an in- 
 cessant glow of dissolving tints — a second sky as lumin- 
 
 10 
 
218 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 ous as the other but more diversified, more changeable, 
 more rich and more intense, formed of superposed tones, 
 the combination of which is a harmony. Hours might 
 be passed in contemplating these gradations, these 
 delicate shades, this splendor. Is it to a spectacle like 
 this contemplated daily, is it to this nature involunta- 
 rily accepted as mistress, is it to the imagination forci- 
 bly charged by these fluctuating and voluptuous ap- 
 pearances of things that the Venetian coloring is due ? 
 
 Aijril 21. — A day in a gondola. It is necessary to 
 wander about and see the whole. 
 
 Venice is the pearl of Italy. I have seen nothing 
 equal to it. I know of but one city that approaches it, 
 ■ — ^very remotely, and only on account of its architec- 
 ture — and that is, Oxford. None can be compared to 
 it throughout the peninsula. On recurring to the dirty 
 streets of Eome and Naples ; on thinking of the dry and 
 narrow streets of Florence and of Sienna, and then on 
 contemplating these marble palaces, these marble 
 bridges, these marble churches, this superb embroidery 
 of columns, balconies and windows, these gothic, moor- 
 ish, and byzantine cornices, and the universal presence 
 of the moving and glittering water, one wonders why 
 he did not come here first ; why he lost two months in 
 other cities, and why he did not devote all his time to 
 Venice. One begins to think of making it his home, 
 and vows, at least, that he will return here. For the 
 first time one admires not only with the brain, but also 
 with the heart, the senses and the entu^e being. One 
 feels fully disposed to be happy ; one confesses that 
 life is beautiful and good. All that is essential is to 
 open the eyes, there being no need of effort ; the gon- 
 dola glides a]ong insensibly, and, reclining in it, one 
 wholly abandons himself physically and mentally. A 
 bland and gentle breeze caresses the cheeks. The broad 
 surface of the canal undulates with the rosy and white 
 forms of the palaces asleep in the freshness and silence 
 
THE GEAND CANAL. -13 
 
 of dawn ; everything is forgotten, profession, projects, 
 self ; one gazes, becomes absorbed, and revels as if sud- 
 denly released from life and soaring aerially above all 
 things in light and in azure. 
 
 The curve of the Grand Canal sweeps between two 
 ranges of palaces, which, built each apart and for it- 
 self, involuntarily combine their diversities for its em- 
 bellishment. Most of them are of the middle ages, 
 with ogive windows capped with trefoils, and balconies 
 trellised with foliage and rosaces, all this rich gothic 
 fancy blooming forth in the midst of its marble lace- 
 work, without ever subsiding into the dull or the ugly ; 
 others, of the renaissance, display their three super- 
 posed ranges of antique columns. Porphyry and ser- 
 pentine incrust the upper sections of the doors with 
 their polished and precious material. Several facades 
 are rosy, or mottled with delicate hues, their ara- 
 besques resembling the foam of waves delineated on the 
 finest sand. Time has clothed these forms with gray, 
 melting livery, and the morning light sports in gladness 
 over the broad expanse at their feet. 
 
 The canal turns, and you see rising from the water, 
 like a rich marine vegetation, or some strange and mag- 
 nificent piece of white coral, Santa Maria della Salute, 
 with its domes, its clusters of sculpture and its pedi- 
 ment loaded with statues, and beyond, on another 
 island, San Giorgio Maggiore, rotund and bristling like 
 a pompous mother-of-pearl conch. You carry your eye 
 to the left, and there is St. Marks, the Campanile, the 
 Piazza, and the Ducal Palace. Probably no gem in the 
 world equals it. 
 
 It is not to be described ; you must go to engravings 
 — -but what are engravings without color? There are 
 too many forms, too vast an accumulation of master- 
 pieces, too great prodigality of invention ; all one can 
 do is to abstract from it some dry, general impression 
 like a broken branch picked up and preserved in order 
 
5JX5U VENICE. 
 
 to convey some idea of a blooming tree. Supreme over 
 all is a rich exuberant fancy, parts that glide into a 
 whole, a diversity and contrasts that terminate in 
 harmony. Imagine eight or ten jewels encircling the 
 neck or the arms of a woman, and all in harmony 
 through their own magnificence or through her beauty. 
 The admirable piazza, bordered with porticoes and 
 palaces, extends rectangularly its forests of columns, its 
 Corinthian capitals, its statues, its noble and varied ar- 
 rangement of classic forms. At its extremity, half 
 gothic, half byzantine, rises the Basilica, under bulbous 
 domes and tapering belfries, its arcades festooned with 
 figures, its porches laced with light columns, its arches 
 wainscoted with mosaics, its pavements incrusted with 
 colored marbles, and its cupolas scintillating with gold ; 
 a strange mysterious sanctuary, a sort of christian 
 mosque in which cascades of light vacillate in ruddy 
 shadows like the wings of genii within the purple, me- 
 tallic walls of subterranean abodes. All this teems 
 with sparks and radiance. A few paces off, bare and 
 erect like a ship's mast, the gigantic Campanile towers 
 in the air and announces to distant mariners the time- 
 honored royalty of Venice. At its base, closely pressed 
 to it, the delicate loggetta of Sansovino seems like a 
 flower, so many statues, bas-reliefs, bronzes and mar- 
 bles, whatever is rich and imaginative of living and ele- 
 gant art, crowd around it to adorn it. Famous frag- 
 ments, scattered about, form in the open air a museum 
 and a memorial : quadrangular columns brought from St. 
 Jean d'Acre, four bronze horses taken from Constanti- 
 nople, bronze pillars to which the city standards were 
 attached, two granite shafts bearing on their tops the 
 dragon and winged lion of the Republic, and, in front, 
 a wide marble quay and steps to which the black flo- 
 tilla of gondolas lies moored. The eye turns to the 
 sea and you no longer desire to contemplate anything 
 else ; it ma^^ be seen in the pictures of Canaletti, but 
 
VENETIAN BRILLIANCY. 221 
 
 only throiigli a yeil. Painted light is not actual light. 
 Around the architecture, the water, expanded into a 
 lake, entwines its magical frame with its green and 
 blue tones and its flickering sea-green crystal. Myriads 
 of little waves sport and gleam in the breeze, and their 
 crests palpitate with scintillations. On the horizon to- 
 ward the east, at the end of the Slaves' quay appear 
 masts of vessels, tops of churches and the pointed ver- 
 dure of an extensive garden. All this issues from the 
 water ; on every side the flood fills the canals, sweep- 
 ing along the quays, losing itself on the horizon, rush- 
 ing between the houses, and skirting the sides of the 
 churches. The lustrous, luminous, enveloping sea pen- 
 etrates into and encircles Venice as if with a halo. 
 
 Like a magnificent diamond in a brilliant setting 
 the Ducal Palace effaces the rest. I can describe 
 nothing to-day — all I care to do is to enjoy myself. 
 Never has the like architecture been seen ; all, here, is 
 novel ; you feel yourself drawn out of the conventional ; 
 you realize that outside of classic or gothic forms, 
 which we repeat and impose on ourselves, there is an 
 entire world ; that human invention is illimitable ; that, 
 Hke nature, it may break all the rules and produce a 
 perfect work after a model opposed to that to which we 
 are told to conform. Every habit of the eye is reversed, 
 and we see here with surprise and delight, oriental fancy 
 grafting the full on the empty instead of the empty on 
 the full. A colonnade of robust shafts bears a second 
 and a lighter one decorated with ogives and with trefoils, 
 while above this support, so frail, expands a massive 
 wall of red and white marble whose courses interlace 
 each other in designs and reflect the light. Above, a 
 cornice of open pyramids, pinnacles, spiracles and fes- 
 toons intersects the sky with its border, forming a 
 marble vegetation bristling and blooming above the 
 vermilion and pearly tones of the fagade, reminding 
 one of the luxuriant Asiatic or African cactus which on 
 
222 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 its native soil mingles its leafy poniards and purple 
 petals. 
 
 You enter and immediately tlie eyes are filled with 
 forms. Around two cisterns covered with sculptured 
 bronze, four facades develop their statues and architec- 
 tural details glowing with the freshness of the -early 
 Renaissance. There is nothing bare or cold ; every- 
 thing is decked with reliefs and figures, the pedantry 
 of erudites and critics not having yet intervened, under 
 the pretext of purity and correctness, to restrain a 
 lively imagination and the craving for visual enjoyment. 
 People are not austere in Yenice ; they do not restrict 
 themselves to the prescriptions of books ; they do not 
 make up their minds to go and yawn admiringly at a 
 facade sanctioned by Yitruvius ; they want an architec- 
 tural work to absorb and to delight the whole sentient 
 being; they deck it with ornaments, columns and 
 statues, they render it luxurious and joyous. They 
 place colossal pagans like Mars and Neptune on it, 
 and biblical figures like Adam and Eve ; the sculptors 
 of the fifteenth century enliven it with their somewhat 
 realistic and lank bodies, and those of the sixteenth, 
 with their animated and muscular forms. Rizzo and 
 Sansovino here rear the precious marbles of their stair- 
 ways, the delicate stuccoes and elegant caprices of their 
 arabesques : armor and boughs, griffins and fawns, 
 fantastic flowers and capering goats, a profusion of 
 poetic plants and joyous, bounding animals. You 
 mount these princely steps with a sort of timidity and 
 respect, ashamed of the dull black coat you wear, re- 
 minding one by contrast of the embroidered silk gowns, 
 the sweeping pompous dalmatics, the byzantine tiaras 
 and brodekins, all that seigneurial magnificence for 
 which these marble staircases were designed ; and, at 
 the top, is Tintoretto's " St. Mark" to greet you, 
 launched in the air like an old Saturn, also two superb 
 women, "Power" and "Justice," and a doge who is 
 
NATIONAL GLOKIES. 223 
 
 receiying from tliem the sword of command and of 
 battle. At tlie top of the stan-case open the two halls, 
 the government and state saloons, and both are lined 
 with paintings ; here Tintoretto, Veronese, Pordenone, 
 Palma the younger, Titian, Bonifazio and twenty others 
 have covered with masterpieces the walls of which 
 Palladio, Aspetti, Scamozzi and Sansovino made the 
 designs and ornaments. All the genius of the city at 
 its brightest period assembled here to glorify the coun- 
 try in the erection of a memorial of its victories and an 
 apotheosis of its grandeur. There is no similar trophy 
 in the world : naval combats, ships with curved prows 
 like swans' necks, galleys with crowded banks of oars, 
 battlements discharging showers of arrows, floating 
 standards amidst masts, a tumultuous strife of strug- 
 gling and engulphed combatants, crowds of Illyrians, 
 Saracens and Greeks, naked bodies bronzed by the sun 
 and deformed by contests, stuffs of gold, damascene 
 armor, silks starred with pearls, all the strange medley 
 of that heroic, luxurious display which transpires in its 
 history from Zara to Damietta and from Padua to the 
 Dardanelles ; here and there, grand nudities of allegori- 
 cal goddesses ; in the triangles the "Virtues" of Porde- 
 none, a species of colossal virago with herculean, 
 sanguine and choleric body ; throughout, a display of 
 virile strength, active energy, sensual gaiety, and, pre- 
 paring the way for this bewildering procession, the 
 grandest of modern paintings, a " Paradise" by Tinto- 
 retto, eighty feet in length by twenty feet wide, wdth 
 six hundred figures whirling about in a ruddy illumina- 
 tion as if the glowing volumes of a conflagration. 
 
 The intellect seems to reel — blinded as it were ; — the 
 senses stagger. You stop and close your eyes, and 
 then, after a few moments, make your selection. I have 
 to-day seen but one picture well, the "Triumph of 
 Venice" by Paul Veronese. This work is not merely 
 food for the eye but a feast. Amidst grand architec- 
 
224 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 tural forms of balconies and spiral columns sits Venice, 
 the blonde, on a throne, radiant with beauty, with that 
 fresh and rosy carnation peculiar to the daughters of 
 humid climates, her silken skirt spreading out beneath 
 a silken mantle. Around her a circle of young women 
 bend over with a voluptuous and yet haughty smile, 
 possessing that Venetian charm peculiar to a goddess 
 who has a courtezan's blood in her veins, but who rests 
 on her cloud and attracts men to her instead of de- 
 scending to them. Eelieving on their pale violet dra- 
 peries and on mantles of azure and of gold, their liv- 
 ing flesh, their backs and shoulders, are impregnated 
 with light or swim in the penumbra, the soft roundness 
 of their nudity harmonizing with the tranquil gaiety 
 of their attitudes and features. Venice, in their midst, 
 ostentatious and yet gentle, seems like a queen whose 
 rank merely gives her the right to be happy, and whose 
 only desire is to render happy those who contemplate 
 her. On her serene head two angels, thrown back- 
 ward, place a crown. 
 
 What a miserable instrumentality is words ! A tone 
 of satiny flesh, a luminous shadow on a nude shoulder, 
 a flickering light on floating silk, attract, retain and 
 recall the eye for a quarter of an hour and yet there is 
 only a vague phrase to express it. With what can one 
 convey the harmony of blue relieving on yellow dra- 
 pery, or of an arm one half of which is in shadow and 
 the rest in sunshine ? And yet almost all the power of 
 painting lies there ; in the effect of one tone on an- 
 other as in music that of one note on another, the 
 eye enjoying corporeally like the ear, a piece of writing 
 which reaches the intellect having no effect upon the 
 nerves. 
 
 Beneath this ideal sky and behind a balustrade are 
 Venetian ladies in the costume of the time, in low- 
 neck dresses cut square and closely fitting the body. 
 It is actual society, and it is as seductive as the other. 
 
KICHES OF VENETIAN ART. 225 
 
 Tliey are gazing, leaning over and smiling, the light 
 which illuminates portions of their clothes and faces 
 falling on or diffusing itself in such exquisite con- 
 trasts that one feels himself moved with transports of 
 delight. At one time a brow, at another a delicate ear, 
 or a necklace, or a pearl, issues from the warm shadow. 
 One, in the flower of 3'outh, has the archest of looks. 
 Another, about forty and amply developed, glances up- 
 ward and smiles in the best possible humor. This 
 one, a superb creature, with red sleeves striped with 
 gold, stops and her swelling breasts expand the chemise 
 of her bodice. A little blonde and curly-headed girl 
 in the arms of an old woman raises her charming little 
 hand with the most mutinous air and her fresh little 
 visage is a rose. There is not one of them who is not 
 happy in living, and who is not, I do not say merely 
 cheerful, but joyous. And how well these rumpled 
 changeable silks, these white and diaphanous pearls ac- 
 cord with these transparent tints as delicate as the j^et- 
 als of flowers ! 
 
 Away below, finally, is the restless activity of the 
 sturdy and noisy crowd : warriors, prancing horses, 
 grand flowing togas, a soldier sounding a trumpet be- 
 dizened with drapery, a man's naked back near a cui- 
 rass, and in the intervals, a dense throng of vigorous 
 and animated heads ; in one corner a young mother 
 and her infant, all being disposed and diversified with 
 the facility and opulence of genius, and all illuminated 
 like the sea in summer with superabundant sunshine. 
 This is what one would have to bear away with him in 
 order to retain an idea of Venice 
 
 I got some one to show me the way to the public 
 garden ; after such a picture one can only contemplate 
 natural objects. This is an embankment at the end of 
 the city, and facing the Lido. Green shrubbery forms 
 hedges ; red and yellow flowers are already blooming 
 on the parteiTes ; smooth plateaus and knotty oaks, 
 
336 VENICE. 
 
 witb. their budding tops, reflect themselves in the lumin- 
 ous water. To the east is a terrace commanding a 
 yiew of the horizon, and of the remoter islands. From 
 this one contemplates the sea at his feet, rolling up in 
 long thin waves on the ruddy sand ; exquisite melting 
 silken tints, veined roses and pale violets, like the dra- 
 peries of Veronese, golden orange, yellows, vinous and 
 intense, like Titian's simarres, tender greens drowned 
 in dark blue, sea-green shades striped with silver or 
 flashing with sparks, undulate, conflict, and lose them- 
 selves under the innumerable flaming darts descending 
 from above at every discharge of the sun's rays. A 
 vast sky of tender azure forms an arch of which one 
 end rests on the Lido, while three or four motionless 
 clouds seem to be banks of pearl. 
 
 I strolled on farther, and finished my day on the sea. 
 Toward night the wind arose and it became dark. 
 Wan hues of a yellowish gray and of a purple green 
 overspread the water ; this sends forth an infinite, in- 
 distinct murmur, its blackening surge exciting a pro- 
 longed sentiment of disquietude. The wind moans and 
 roars, and heavy clouds whirl across the sky ; all remains 
 of the conflagration reddening the west are gone. Oc- 
 casionally the moon glimmers through the rents in the 
 clouds, and thus drifts from opening to opening, extin- 
 guished almost as soon as lighted, and shedding for a 
 moment only its flickering beams on the restless flood. 
 The rotundity and enormity of the celestial cupola are 
 however still discernible ; the land on the horizon is 
 but a thin black band ; the agitated sea, the vague 
 mist, and overhead opaque masses of moving clouds 
 alone fill all space. 
 
 No words can define the tint of the water on such a 
 night : brown and of dark jasper, at times ashy but 
 audible through innumerable murmurings, one first 
 hears it almost without seeing it, unable to distinguish 
 objects in this vast desert of floating forms. Gradually 
 
SCENERY. 227 
 
 the eyes become accustomed to it, and sensitive to the 
 imperishable hght ever emitted fi'om it. Like icicles 
 in a close and gloomy vault, or one of those magic mir- 
 rors of unfathomable depth which legends describe, 
 it gleams obscurely, mysteriously, but it always gleams ; 
 at one time the point of a wave emerges, at another the 
 back of a broad billow, now the smooth side of a tran- 
 quil concavity, now the ^vhirl of a flashing eddy, some 
 distant reflection, or the sudden break and dash of foam. 
 All these feeble glimmerings cross, override each other 
 and commingle steadily, emitting from this great black- 
 ness a dubious luminousness like the lustre of metal 
 seen in shadow, an infinite field of pallid brightness, the 
 inextinguishable glow of living water vainly bedimmed 
 by the deadened sky. 
 
 Two or three times the moon shines out clear, and its 
 long vacillating train seems like that of a funereal lamp 
 beaming among pendent draperies, before the black pall 
 of some prodigious catafalque. On the horizon, like a 
 procession of torches and of tombs in limitless perspec- 
 tive, appears "Venice with its lamps and its buildings, a 
 group of lights here and there crowding together like 
 clusters of tapers around a bier. 
 
 The boat approaches. On the left, in extraordinary 
 silence, the Orfano canal recedes motionless and desert- 
 ed ; this calm of the dark and gleaming water, thriUs 
 the nerves with pleasure and likewise with horror. The 
 mind involuntarily plunges into these cold depths. 
 What a strange life, that of this mute nocturnal ele- 
 ment ! — Meanwhile the churches and palaces grow and 
 swim on the water with the air of spectres. San Marco 
 looms up, its architecture raying the gloomy deep with 
 its multiplied domes and pinnacles. Like the phantasm 
 of a magician, or the aerial splendor of an imaginaiy 
 palace, the piazza with its columns and campanile bursts 
 out between two ranges of light. Then the boat buries 
 itself in suspicious lanes,where, at long intervals, a street 
 
228 VENICE. 
 
 lamp casts on the water its flickering radiance : not a 
 figure, not a sound, save tlie warning of the gondolier 
 on turning the corners ; everj few moments the gondola 
 pierces the obscurity of a bridge, and slowly, like a 
 crawling worm, glides by the foundations of a palace, 
 invisible in the dense cavern-like shadow. Suddenly 
 it emerges, and an isolated lantern appears ahead lugu- 
 briously trembling in the darkness, kindling a reflection, 
 or casting a fugitive scintillation on the hvid back of a 
 wave. At other times the water plashes against dis- 
 jointed steps and crumbhng masonry ; the eye discerns 
 a grated window, some leprous wall, and all around, a 
 labyrinth of intersecting canals and tortuous streams, 
 ceaselessly burying themselves in each other amidst 
 unintelligible forms. 
 
 Streets and Squares. — All is beauty ; I suppose that 
 there are sympathies of temperament, — I find one of 
 these here ; give me a grand forest on a river-bank, or 
 Venice. 
 
 Even to these watery lanes, even to the most insig- 
 nificant places, there is nothing here which does not 
 please. From the Loredan palace where I lodge, one 
 winds around, in order to reach St. Mark's, quaint and 
 charming calle tapestried with shops, drygoods, mel- 
 ons, vegetables and oranges, and thronged with gay 
 costumes, sensual insinuating faces and a noisy and 
 ever-changing crowd. These passages are so narrow, so 
 oddly contracted between their irregular walls that one 
 can scarcely see the ragged strip of blue sky above 
 them. You emerge on some piazzetta, some deserted 
 campo all white beneath a sky white with light. Flag- 
 ging, walls, enclosures, pavement all is of stone : round 
 about are closed houses, and their rows form a triangle 
 or a bulging square through the necessities of enlarge- 
 ment or the chances of construction ; a delicately 
 carved cistern forms the centre and sculptured lions, 
 and little nude figures sport around the margin. In 
 
PICTURESQUE GLIMPSES. 229 
 
 one corner is some odd cliurch, San Mose — a Jesuit 
 fagade — or San Apostoli, or San Luca, so many portals 
 covered with statues browned by the damp salt air and 
 by the prolonged action of the blazing sun ; — a jet of 
 light falling obliquely on the edifice cuts it into two 
 portions, and one half of the figures seem to be moving 
 about on the pediments or issuing from the niches, 
 whilst others remain tranquil in the blue transparency 
 of the shadow. You advance and, in a long outlet 
 traversed by a bridge, gondolas are furrowing the mar- 
 bled surface of the water with silver ; quite at the end 
 of the perspective a golden flash marks the stream of 
 sunshine, which, from a roof-top, makes the striped 
 flank of the wave dance with lightning. An arch 
 springs over the canal and a grisette in a black man- 
 tilla raises her petticoat, exposing her white stocking, 
 trim ankle and heelless shoe. She has not the spii'ited 
 and hard air of her Eoman sisters; she trips along 
 wavingiy under her veil and exposes her snowy neck be- 
 neath the curls of her auburn tresses. Plump, smiling 
 and soft she has the air of a peacock, or rather of a 
 pigeon pluming his neck in the sunshine. I get lost — and 
 so much the better ; without a cicerone I find my way 
 by the sun and the inclination of the shadows. Before 
 every church, at every spot within reach of a gondola, 
 are groups of picturesque rogues, true lazzaroni, whose 
 sole occupation consists in holding the boat close 
 against the steps, and in summoning the gondolier 
 when the passenger returns to it, or in loitering about 
 in the sun, or sleeping, or begging. They stretch forth 
 their palms, and we regard their dust}', dingy, mottled 
 rags through which their ruddy flesh projects ; they are 
 of a fine, low, transparent tone and they harmonize 
 well with the sculptured recesses, or afar with the va- 
 cant quays. We reach the square of San Marco ; the 
 sun has disappeared ; but San Giorgio, the towers, and 
 the brick structures are as rosy as a peach blossom. 
 
230 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 and, toward sunset, a purple vapor, a sort of luminous 
 dust, a furnace-glow inflames the horizon. To the 
 west each dome and pinnacle emerges from the sea, 
 gleaming like cups and candelabra of agate and por- 
 phyry ; all these points and all these crests intersect 
 the grand celestial conch with extraordinary clearness, 
 and quite low down on the sky we see a distant and 
 gTowing tinge of emerald. 
 
 Garlands of light begin to shine beneath the arcades 
 of the Procurates. Taking a seat in the cafe Florian, 
 in a small cabinet wainscoted with mirrors and decked 
 with agreeable allegorical subjects, one muses with 
 half-closed eyes over the imagery of the day falling 
 into the order of and transformed as in a dream ; 
 odorous sorbets melt on the tongue and are re warmed 
 with exquisite coffee such as is found nowhere else in 
 Europe ; one smokes tobacco of the Orient and be- 
 holds flower-girls approaching, graceful and hand- 
 somely attired in robes of silk, who silently place on the 
 table violets and the narcissus. Meanwhile the square 
 fills up with people ; a dark crowd buzzes and moves 
 about in the shadow rayed with light; strolling 
 musicians sing or give a concert of viohns and harps. — 
 On getting up, behind the square thronged with moving 
 shadows, at the end of a double fi'inge of gay and 
 brilliant shops, appears San Marco with its strange 
 oriental vegetation, its bulbs, its thorns, its fihgree of 
 statuary and the darkening recesses of its porches be- 
 neath the trembling ghmmer of two or three lost 
 lamps. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 ANCIENT VENICE.— PROLONGATION OF THE MUNICIPAL SYSTEM. - 
 ORIGINALITY AND RICHNESS OF INVENTION IN SMALL FREE 
 STATES.— THE RENAISSANCE OF ARCHITECTURE.— SAN MARCO.— 
 IMPORTATION AND TRANSFORMATION OF THE BYZANTINE STYLE. 
 —MOSAICS AND SCULPTURES. 
 
 That wliicli is peculiar and special to Yenice, that 
 wliich makes her a unique city, is that she alone in 
 Europe, after the fall of the Roman empire, continued 
 a free city and maintained uninterruptedly the regime 
 and the social and intellectual characteristics of the 
 ancient republics. Imagine Cyrene, Utica, Corcyra or 
 any other Greek or Punic colony miraculously escap- 
 ing invasion or universal regeneration, and prolonging 
 down to the French Revolution the ancient form of 
 humanity. The history of Yenice is as wonderful as 
 Yenice itself. 
 
 Yenice, in fact, is a colony from Padua which took 
 refuge from Alaric and Attila in an inaccessible spot, 
 as formerly Phocea transferred itself to Marseilles in 
 order to escape similar devastators in Cyrus and 
 Darius. Like the Greek colonies she at first maintains 
 the liens which bind her to the metropolis. In 421 
 Padua decrees the formation of a city at the Rialto, 
 sends consuls and constructs a church. The daughter 
 grows up under the protection of the mother and then 
 abandons her. From this time forth, and for thirteen 
 centuries, no barbarian, no German or Saracen mon- 
 arch lays his hand on her. She is not included in the 
 great feudal organization ; Charlemagne's son fails 
 before her lagunes ; the German or Frank emperors 
 
232 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 regard her as not depending on them but on Constanti- 
 nople. And this dependence which is only nominal 
 soon disappears. Between the gilded Caesars of 
 Byzantium and the cuirassed Caesars of Aix-la-Chapelle, 
 against the ponderous vessels of the degenerate 
 Greek and the heavy Germanic cavalry, her marshes, 
 her bravery and her skiU maintained her free and 
 latin. Her old historians begin theu* annals Avith the 
 boast of being Eoman, much more Eoman than the 
 Romans of Kome so many times vanquished and so 
 repeatedly stained with foreign blood. In fact she 
 mthdrew in time from imperial corruption in order to 
 revive in the laborious and militant fashion of the an- 
 cient cities, in a safe retreat where the inundation of 
 feudal brutes could not reach her. Man, with her, did 
 not become enervated in the simarre of Byzantium 
 silk, or rigid in a German suit of mail. Instead of 
 becoming a scribe in the hands of palace eunuchs, or a 
 soldier obeying the baron of a fortified castle, he works, 
 navigates, constructs, dehberates and votes hke an 
 Athenian or Corinthian of old with no other master 
 than himself among his fellow-citizens and his equals. 
 From the very beginning, for two centuries and a haK, 
 each islet appoints a tribune, a sort of mayor renewa- 
 ble every year and responsible to a general assembly 
 of all the islands. Early chroniclers state that ali- 
 ments and habitations are everywhere alike. In the 
 sixth century Cassiodorus says that " the poor man is 
 the equal of the rich, that theh houses are uniform, 
 that with them there are no quarrels and no jealous- 
 ies." We see reappearing an image of the sober and 
 active Greek democracies. "WTien in 697, they give 
 themselves a doge their liberty only becomes the 
 more tempestuous. There are conflicts between fami- 
 lies and personal encounters in the assemblies. If the 
 doge becomes tyrannical and aims to perpetuate the 
 office in his family they banish him, force him to be- 
 
CIYIC PRIDE AND PATEIOTISM. 333 
 
 come a monk, or put out his eyes, and sometimes 
 massacre liim according to the custom of the cities 
 of antiquity. In 1172, out of fifty doges, nineteen 
 had been slain, banished, mutilated or deposed. The 
 city has its local god, a sort of Jupiter Capitolinus or 
 Athene Polias ; at first St. Theodore with his crocodile, 
 then St. Mark with his winged lion, Avhile the apostle's 
 body, craftily obtained from Alexandria, protects and 
 sanctifies the soil of the state as formerly (Edipus, 
 interred at Colonna, sanctified and protected the Athe- 
 nian soil. Public spirit is as vigorous as in the times 
 of Miltiades and Cimon. Urseolo I. founded a hos- 
 pital and rebuilt the palace and church of St. Mark at 
 his own expense. His son Urseolo 11. leaves two 
 thirds of his property to the state, and the rest to his 
 family. Behold a second growth of the antique olive, 
 fi'esh and green in the midst of feudal frost ! In the 
 form of his government and in the limitations of his 
 faith, in his usages and sentiments, in his perils and 
 enterprises, in the motives which stimulate and in the 
 conceptions which giiide him man here finds himself 
 once more launched forth on a career which other 
 human societies have forever abandoned. 
 
 We no longer comprehend the force with which they 
 ran on this narrow field. We no longer behold the en- 
 ergies developed by limited societies. We are lost in 
 an over-large state. We cannot imagine the constant 
 provocations to bravery and to enterprise which com- 
 ports with a community reduced to a town. We can 
 no longer conjecture the inventive resources, the patri- 
 otic outbursts, the treasures of genius, the marvels of 
 devotion, the magnificent development of human pow- 
 ers and of generosity to which the individual attains 
 when moving in a sphere proportioned to his faculties 
 and adapted to his activity. What is rarer nowadays 
 than to feel, being a citizen, that one belongs to his 
 country ! It is necessary for it to be in danger, which 
 
234 VENICE. 
 
 happens but once in a century.* Ordinarily we do not 
 see it ; it is for us only an abstract entity ; we interest 
 ourselves in it only through a rational process of the 
 brain. We appreciate it simply as a piece of complex 
 mechanism which incommodes us and is useful to us 
 but which, on the whole, lasts and does not go to 
 pieces. A wheel broken or an accident, however grave 
 it may be, merely depresses the funds and that is all. 
 Our own life and that of our neighbors is not affected 
 by it ; we always find policemen in the streets to pro- 
 tect us ; our business suffers but little and our pleasures 
 not at all. Since private life became divorced from 
 pubhc life, the State, transferred to the hands of the 
 government, no longer seems to be an individual con- 
 cern. On the contrary, at this epoch, a blow given to 
 the community deeply wounds the individual ; national 
 matters are personal matters. When the Hungarians 
 arrive before Venice there is no need of stimulating the 
 Venetian to rush off to the Malamocco channel ; his 
 house, his children, his wife are at stake, and he man- 
 ages his boat himself as we of to-day work fire-engines 
 on a fire breaking out a couple of yards from our own 
 door. One hundred and sixty years of war against 
 Dalmatian pirates is not a matter of government cal- 
 culation, the plan of a cabinet, a system elaborated by 
 a dozen political craniums and embroidered uniforms, 
 like our African expeditions. Vessels intercepted, 
 brides torn from churches, captive citizens chained to 
 the oars, individual wounds on all sides bleed and 
 bleed afresh in order to transform private persons 
 into so many citizens. When the city, later, surrounds 
 the Mediterranean with its colonies, the same situation 
 maintains the same patriotic ardor. The Navagieri, 
 dukes of Lemnos, the Sanudo, princes of Naxos and 
 
 * France in 1594 under Henry IV., in 1712 under Louis XIY. and 
 during the Convention. 
 
PUBLIC SPIEIT OF THE CITIZEN. 235 
 
 of Paros, the five hundred and thirty-seven families of 
 cavahers and foot-soldiers who have received a third of 
 Crete in fief, know that their own security depends 
 on that of the public. A defeat of Yenice involves 
 with them invasion, conflagrations, mutilations and im- 
 palement. When Greeks, Egyptians and Genoese 
 launch their flotillas or when Germans, Turks or Dal- 
 matians move their armies, the humblest inhabitant, 
 whether trader, sailor or boat-calker, knows that his 
 trade, his wages and his limbs are in danger. Through 
 constant absorption of himself in the common weal he 
 becomes accustomed to act with the entire body, to 
 feel himseK incorporated with the countr}^, to be in- 
 sulted and wounded in and through her, to admire her 
 and disdain others, to become enamored of himself 
 as the soldier of a noble, conquering and intelligent 
 army led by St. Mark, the favorite of the Deity, as its 
 general. A man, thus exalted, is very strong. Feeling 
 great he does gTeat things ; generosity doubles the power 
 of the spring which personal interest had already tem- 
 pered. Consider the life of a modern city like Eouen or 
 Toulouse, a simple collection of individuals each of whom, 
 under a passable police, vegetates alone, solicitous only 
 about himself, languidly occupied in getting rich or with 
 pleasures, and, more frequently, in self-compression and 
 in self-extinction. Contemplate the enterprising life of 
 a free city like ancient Athens or old Eome, or Genoa 
 or Pisa in the middle ages, like this Yenice a borough of 
 fishmongers, planted on mud, without earth, without 
 water, without stone, without wood, which conquers 
 the coasts of its own gulf, Constantinople, the Archi- 
 pelago, the Peloponnesus and Cyprus, which sup- 
 presses seven rebellions in Zara and sixteen rebellions 
 in Crete, which defeats the Dalmatians, the Byzantines, 
 the sultans of Cairo and the kings of Hungary, wliich 
 launches on the Bosphorus flotillas of five hundred 
 sail, which arms squadrons of two hundred galleys, 
 
236 VENICE. 
 
 which keeps afloat at one time three thousand vessels, 
 which annually with four fleets of galleys unites Tre- 
 bizond, Alexandria, Tunis, Tangiers, Lisbon and Lon- 
 don, which finally, creating manufactures, an archi- 
 tecture, a school of painting and an original society, 
 transforms itself into a magnificent jewel of art whilst 
 its vessels and its soldiers in Crete and in the Morea 
 defend Europe against the last of barbarian invasions. 
 We can comprehend by this contrast between its activ- 
 ity and our inertia what society can force out of man ; 
 what man may dare and create when the State makes 
 him sovereign and a patriot ; what the ancient munici- 
 pal regime, which we have abandoned and which Yen- 
 ice revived, develops of courage and of genius in erect- 
 ing and binding together in one single sheaf, the facul- 
 ties which we allow to become insulated and wasted in 
 our overgrown states. 
 
 When a society thus develops itself through itself it 
 has its own taste and art ; spontaneous life generates 
 original productions, and invention stimulates the 
 spring of the mind after invigorating that of action. 
 But one thing is necessary to man, and that is respect 
 for the source of inspiration within his own breast ; let 
 each one guard his own, keep it from being impeded or 
 disturbed, and see that it is made to flow freely ; the 
 rest, work, fame and power, will come afterward and 
 through increase. These Venetians betook themselves 
 to Constantinople and brought back for their church 
 the round forms, vaulted arcades and globular cupolas 
 in which Byzantine architecture delighted ; but in re- 
 peating them on their own soil, they transformed them, 
 and the church of San Marco differs as much from St. 
 Sophia as a young and simple nation, creative and vic- 
 torious, differs from a punctilious and grandiose old 
 empire. Architects murmur on contemplating it ; rules 
 are violated at every step, and styles are commingled. 
 They were ignorant of the way or, perhaps, did not 
 
INFLUENCE OF OEIENTAL ART. 237 
 
 dare to copy, on this shifting soil the vast dome of St. 
 Sophia ; but its rotundities pleased them and, instead of 
 one single grand dome they erected five small ones, 
 expanding them on the outside in bulbous form with 
 pinnacles and singular curvatures. An exuberant fancy 
 indulged itself to the utmost. From the peristyle 
 throughout one is impressed with its overflowing rich- 
 ness. The antique arch of the porches is capped with 
 a vaulted casing setting off in gothic points its garland 
 of statues. Delicate spires are introduced on the but- 
 tresses. Eive hundred porphyry, verd-antique and 
 serpentine columns bind together and support on the 
 facades their incoherent stories, their barbaric or classic 
 capitals and the magnificent medley of their polychro- 
 matic marbles. Saracenic gates glitter with small 
 horse-shoe trellises between quaint capitals w^here 
 birds, lions, foliage, grapes, thorns and crosses inter- 
 mingle their gross and fantastic designs. On the arch 
 innumerable mosaics display stiff realistic bodies, 
 meagre Eves wdth pendent breasts, lank Adams, all so 
 many undressed laborers, numerous biblical subjects as 
 naively indecent and as childishly awkward as the illu- 
 minations of the most ancient missals. You recognize 
 the mediaeval man who embroiders an original gothic 
 decoration on an imported classic background; who, 
 refined and disturbed by Christianity, no longer loves 
 simplicity and unity but the complex and the multiple ; 
 w^ho has to cover the field of his vision with the 
 salienc}' and confusion of a prodigality of forms, wdth 
 the novelty, luxury and search for capricious ornamen- 
 tation ; who, becoming more imaginative as w^ell as more 
 sensitive, can only satisfy his eye with an illimitable 
 swarm of populous surfaces and wdth the brusque 
 overflow of curious irregularity; wdio, finally, led by 
 his maritime destiny to Byzantine basilicas and Ma- 
 hometan mosques heaps up marbles, bronzes, purple 
 Lues and golden gleams in order to express through 
 
^^o YENICE. 
 
 his Christianity the composite and gorgeous poesy with 
 which the spectacle of the Orient has imbued him. 
 
 To-day is St. Mark's fete day. Women and young 
 girls in black Veils, violet-colored shawls, and long 
 loose petticoats, forming a gay crowd, throng the 
 porches, and surge to and fro within the church. They 
 kneel on the pavement, touch the feet of a bronze 
 Christ with their fingers, and make the sign of the 
 cross ; others mumble prayers and drop pennies in a 
 box carried around for alms "in behaK of the poor 
 dead." A procession of prelates passes, and you see 
 their white and gold mitres, and sparkling damask 
 copes winding around amongst the pillars. A chant is 
 heard, quaint, and beautiful, composed of extreme high 
 and low voices, a sort of monotonous melopoeia and 
 which, perhaps, comes from Byzantium. The singers 
 are invisible, nobody knowing from whence the music 
 issues as it floats about ascending into the sombre, ruddy 
 atmosphere Hke an incorporeal voice in a gleaming grot 
 of fairies and genii. 
 
 Nothing can be compared to this spectacle for 
 strangeness and magnificence. We had just seen the 
 square of St. Mark so gay and beautiful, its elegant col- 
 onnades, the rich azure of the sky, and the broad lumi- 
 nous expanse of light. We descend one step and the 
 eye plunges suddenly into the purple gloom of a small 
 sanctuary of unknown form filled with smothered gleams 
 and reflections, surcharged and confined, like the low 
 vaulted chamber in which a Jew or a pacha conceals his 
 treasures. Two colors, the most powerful of all, cover 
 it from pavement to dome ; one, that of the red-veined 
 marble shimmering on the shafts of the columns, decks 
 the walls and displays itself on the floor ; the other, 
 that of gold, tapestries the cupolas and overspreads the 
 mosaics, reflecting the light with its myriads of square 
 cubes. Red on gold in shadow, — nobody can imagine 
 such a tone ! Time has deepened and fused them to- 
 
SAN MARCO. 239 
 
 gether; over the marble jDavement, cracked by depres- 
 sions, the quivering domes flash with ruddy brightness ; 
 there is no dayhght except that from the little rounded 
 bays enclosed with stained glass. Innumerable forms, 
 pillars seamed with sculptures, bronzes, candelabras, 
 and with hundreds of mosaics, an asiatic luxuriousness 
 of complicated decorations and barbarous figures, blend 
 together in an atmosphere filled with spiral threads of 
 incense, and floating with luminous atoms of sunny 
 and nocturnal contrasts. Language cannot express 
 the power of the light imprisoned in and scattered 
 throughout this gloom. A chapel on the right is as 
 sombre as a subterranean cavern ; a gleam of light 
 flickers on the curvature of the arches. Alone, three 
 brass lamps emerge from the palpable obscurity ; the 
 eye dwells on their round forms, and follows the as- 
 cending chains scintillating overhead and losing them- 
 selves in unintelligible gloom ; thus visible, pendent 
 from a train of coruscations, they might be taken for 
 the mysterious corolla of magical flowers. These archi- 
 tects of the tenth and twelfth centuries had a sentiment 
 peculiarly their own. It matters little whether they 
 imitated the Byzantine or the Arab ; this St. Mark, 
 whom they brought from Alexandria, this Syrian apos- 
 tle whose country and sky they were familiar with, 
 filled their imagination with a poesy unknown to the 
 barbarians of the north. They do not seek to express 
 a melancholy sentiment, or go in quest of the enor- 
 mous ; there is a groundwork of southern joyousness 
 in their fancy, in the warm coloring which they infuse 
 into their church, in that universal coating of lustrous 
 mosaics, in that marble marquetry, in those sculptured 
 galleries, in those pulpits, those balconies, and in those 
 rich arab or gothic doors, each surrounded with its cor- 
 don of apostles. In this vision-like fete all discords 
 harmonize and awkwardness is no longer felt. The 
 four columns around the high altar supportii g the 
 
240 YENICE. 
 
 baldacliin disappear beneath a profusion of figures 
 which from base to capital, each in its niche, cover the 
 entire shaft. If we take them one bj one they are bar- 
 barian ; we are repelled by their lack of force and the 
 evidences they furnish of fruitless groping. The hands 
 are out of proportion and the heads oftentimes absorb 
 a third or quarter of the whole body; almost all are 
 commonplace, and fi'equently stupid and vulgar look- 
 ing. The sculptor was some boorish monk who copied 
 boorish people. His hand wanders and unconsciously 
 lapses into caricature. One saint is a grotesque figure 
 with a swollen cheek, a hectic dropsical subject ; others 
 are shapeless monsters that are not likely to live, and 
 similar to the specimens preserved in an anatomical 
 cabinet. And yet, a few paces off the general effect is 
 admu^able ; you are struck by the superabundance of this 
 indistinct dusky multitude tier upon tier under capitals 
 of golden leaves, and dimly wavering in the tremor of 
 the lamplight. The mediaeval artist, unable to render 
 the individual has a feeling for masses and ensemUes. 
 He does not comprehend, as did the ancient Greek, the 
 perfection of the isolated figure, of the god, of the self- 
 sufficing hero ; he goes outside of that beautiful en- 
 closure ; what he perceives is the people, the multitude, 
 the poor human species utterly humbled, like a vast 
 throng in the presence of the Supreme Ruler. He 
 leaves to it its ugliness, its deformities, its servility ; he 
 even frequently exaggerates these ; but sublime, intense 
 reverie, joy mingled with anguish, all that belongs to 
 spiritual emotion and aspiration he understands and 
 expresses ; and, if we do not find in his work the vigor- 
 ous and healthy body of the independent and complete 
 man, we distinguish the profound emotion of crowds 
 and the impassioned religion of the heart. 
 
 This is what gives life to the rigid mosaics with 
 which all the walls, the arches and the smallest angles 
 are covered. It is evident that they have imported 
 
HIERATIC ART. 241 
 
 their workmen from Constantinople ; tlie puerility of a 
 superannuated art and the insufficiencies of an infantile 
 art have on all sides multipHed manikins whose 
 enamel eyes no longer see. A \drgin over the door at 
 the entrance has no body ; she is simply a skeleton 
 under a mantle. A Christ over the altar in the chapel 
 of the baptismal fonts has no longer a human form ; 
 we would say that he had been disemboweled and 
 emptied : there is nothing left of him but a wan skin 
 badly filled with an indescribable soft stuffing. A 
 Herodias in a red robe starred with gold displays at 
 the end of her ermine sleeves the dried-up joints of a 
 consumptive patient. The extraordinary feet of the 
 angels must be seen ; also the large cavernous eyes of 
 the saints, and the absorbed, inert, sunken features of 
 the entire group. And yet, miserable as these figures 
 are, the young who are obliged to borrow them from 
 the old make of them a beautiful and harmonious 
 whole. Lifeless, hieratic work enters as a fragment 
 into work full of sincerity and inspiration. At this 
 distance and in such profusion one ceases to note 
 meagre and mechanical forms. They simply appear as 
 so many heads in a crowd. The eye feels that it is 
 surrounded by an assemblage of saints, an infinite his- 
 tory, an entire legendary paradise ; it is insensible to 
 detail; it beholds a kingdom and does not dream of 
 enumerating or criticizing its inhabitants. Ancient, 
 pious and heroic Venice thus regarded them ; and 
 hence it is that, for centuries, she lavished her treasures, 
 her labor and her conquests. It is the ideal world as 
 her faith conceived it, as animated for her, as popu- 
 lated as the real world ; such are her patrons, her 
 patriarchs, her angels, her Madonna whom she contem- 
 plates through these figures vivified by the empurpled 
 light and the rustling gold of her cupolas. 
 
 11 
 
CHAPTEK ni. 
 
 SAN GIOVANNI E PAOLO.— I FEAEI-THE ItfAUSOLETJM OF GUATTEMA- 
 LATA.— MONUjVIENTS OF THE DOGES.— THE SPIRIT OF DIVERSE 
 CENTURIES AS STAMPED ON SCULPTURE.— THE MIDDLE AGES, 
 THE RENAISSANCE, THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY, AND THE 
 MODERN EPOCH.— "ST. PETER MARTYR" BY TITIAN.— TINTO- 
 RETTO. 
 
 Ajoril 26. — The gondola buries itself in deserted 
 canals to the north. Reflections from the water flicker 
 in the arched concave of the bridge, like figured silk 
 drapery, rose, white and green. We go out of the city ; 
 it is noon, and the sky is of a glowing pallor. Stranded 
 rafts stretch their washed and shining logs on the plain 
 of motionless water. Facing us is an island surrounded 
 with walls, a cemetery, which rays the flaming bright- 
 ness with its crude whites ; farther on two oj three 
 sails glide along the channels ; on the horizon the 
 vapory chain of mountains develops against the sky its 
 fringe of snow. The indented prow rises out of the 
 water like a strange fish swimming tail foremost, while 
 the dark form of the boat projects forward in the grand 
 silence amidst innumerable shimmering golden waves. 
 
 On an open space rises the equestrian statue of Col- 
 leoni, the second one cast in Italy j"^ and a genuine 
 portrait like that of Guattemalata at Padua ; the actual 
 portrait of a condottiere on his stout war-horse, in a 
 cuirass, with widespread legs, the bust too short and the 
 physiognomy that of a weather beaten camp-soldier 
 who orders and shouts, — not beautified, but taken from 
 life and energetic. Facing it is San Giovanni e Paolo, 
 a gothic church,t but Italian-gothic and therefore gay ; 
 the round pillars, the broad, expansive arches, the win- 
 
 * By Yerocchio, 1475. f 1236-1430. 
 
MONUMENTS OF THE DOGES. 243 
 
 dows almost all white, forestall in the mind any mystic 
 funereal ideas such as northern cathedrals suggest. 
 Like the Campo-Santa at Pisa, and Santa Croce at 
 Florence, this church is crowded with monuments ; add 
 to these those of the church of the Frari and we have 
 a complete mausoleum of the Republic. Most of these 
 tombs belong to the fifteenth or to the early years of 
 the sixteenth century, the brilliant era of the city, 
 when the great men and great actions about to pass 
 away ^vere still of sufficiently recent date for the new- 
 born art to catch its image and express its sincerity ; 
 others show the dawn of this great light ; others again 
 show its decHne, so that one may thus follow through 
 a range of sepulchres the history of human genius 
 from its outburst, along its virility, to its final decay. 
 
 In the monument of the doge Morosini, who died in 
 1382, the pure gothic form blossoms out with all its 
 elegancies. A flowered arcade festoons its lacework 
 above the dead. Two charming little turrets ascend 
 on each side upheld by small columns enlivened with 
 trefoils, embroidered with figures and with canopies 
 and pinnacles, a kind of deHcate vegetation on which 
 the marble bristles and expands like a thorny plant 
 with its needles and flowers. The Doge sleeps with 
 his hands crossed upon his breast. These are genuine 
 funereal monuments : an alcove, sometimes with its 
 baldachin or bed-curtains,^ a marble couch carved and 
 ornamented like the wooden estrade on which the aged 
 limbs of the living man were wont to repose at night, 
 and, within it, the man himself in his ordinary dress, 
 calm in his slumber, confiding and pious because he 
 had well discharged the duties of life, a veritable efQ.gj 
 without affectation or anguish, and which leaves to his 
 survivors the grave and pacific image which their 
 memory ought to retain of him. 
 
 * See the tomb of the Doge Tomaso Mocenigo, 1423. 
 
244 VENICE. 
 
 This is the gravity of the middle ages. Abeady, 
 however, beneath this religious rigidness we see dawn- 
 ing the sentiment of living corporeal forms, which is to 
 be the special discovery of the following age. In the 
 mausoleum of the doge Marco Corner, between five 
 ogive arcades indented with trefoils and surrounded 
 with light canopies, the Virtues, joyous angels in long 
 robes, regard you with spontaneous and striking ex- 
 pressions. In this dawn of discovery the artists naively 
 risked physiognomies and airs of the head which ulte- 
 rior masters rejected through a sense of dignity and 
 in obedience to accepted rules. In this particular the 
 Eenaissance which reduced art to classic nobleness 
 really weakened it, as the purists of our seventeenth 
 century impoverished the rich language of the sixteenth. 
 
 As we advance we see some feature of the new art 
 disclosing itself. In the tomb of the doge Antonio 
 Vennier, deceased in 1400, Eenaissance paganism 
 crops out in a detail of ornamentation, the shell niche. 
 All the rest is still angular, florid, dehcately slender and 
 gothic, the sculpture as well as the architecture. The 
 heads also, are heavy, clumsy, too short and often set 
 on wry necks. Artists copy the real ; they have not 
 yet made a definitive choice of j)roportions ; they stiU 
 remain ignorant of the canons of the Greek statuaries, 
 still plunged in the observation and in the imitatiou of 
 actual life ; but their lack of skill is charming notwith- 
 standing. That Madonna whose neck is bent too much 
 clasps her child with such exquisite tenderness ! 
 There is such an expression of goodness and candor in 
 the heads of those young girls a little too round ! 
 These five virgins in their shell niches are so radiant 
 with youthful purity and sincerity ! Nothing affects 
 one so sensibly as these sculptures with which medicieval 
 art closes."^ All these works are inventive, national 
 
 * Compare tbe sculptiu-es on the tomb of the last Diike of Brittany 
 
MONUMENTS OF THE DOGES. 245 
 
 and, if jou please, commonplace, but they possess sucli 
 incomparable vitality ! The brilliant and overwhelming 
 predominance of classic beauty had not j^et arisen to 
 disciphne the inspirations of original genius ; there 
 were provincial schools of art accommodated to the 
 climate, to the country, to the entire social condition of 
 things and still free of academies and of capitals. 
 Nothing in the world is compensation for originality, 
 the earnest and complete sentiment, the entire soul 
 stamped upon a work of art ; the work then is as in- 
 dividualized, as rich in subtleties as that soul itself. 
 One believes in it ; the marble becomes a sort of diary 
 in which are recorded all the confessions of a human 
 experience. 
 
 On advancing a few paces, following the course of 
 the century,* one feels that this simplicity, this 
 naivete in art gradually diminishes. The funereal 
 monument is converted into one of heroic pomp. 
 Over the dead are round arcades developing their no- 
 ble span. Arabesques run gaily around their polished 
 borders. Files of columns display their blooming 
 acanthus capitals ; sometimes they overtop each other 
 and the four orders of architecture develop their 
 variety to please the eye. The tomb thus becomes a 
 colossal triumphal arch ; a few have twenty statues of 
 almost life-size. The idea of death disappears ; the 
 defunct is no longer couched awaiting the resurrection 
 of the final day, but is seated and looking at you with 
 open eyes ; " he lives again," in the marble as an 
 epitaph ambitiously states. In a similar manner the 
 
 at Nantes, of the tomb of tlie last Dukes of Burgundy and Flanders 
 at Dijon and at Brou, of the tomb of the children of Charles VIII. at 
 Tours. 
 
 * The tombs, for instance, of P. Mocenigo, deceased in 1476 ; — of 
 Marcello, deceased in 1474 ; — of Bonzio, deceased in 1508 ; — of Lo- 
 redan, deceased in 1509; — in the Frari, the tomb of Nicolas de- 
 ceased in 1473 and of Pesaro in 1503. 
 
246 VENICE. 
 
 statues that ornament the memorial become gradually 
 transformed. In the middle of the fifteenth century 
 they are still frequently rigid and restrained ; the legs 
 of young warriors are a little lank, like those of 
 Perugino's arch-angels, and are covered with lion- 
 headed bootees and knee-pieces in which reminis- 
 cences of feudal armor mingle with admiration of 
 antique costume. Bodies and heads all trench on the 
 real ; the merit of the figures consist in their involun- 
 tary earnestness, in their simple, intense expression, in 
 the force of their attitudes, in their fixed and pro- 
 found regard. On approaching the sixteenth century 
 ease and activity appear. The folds of draperies are 
 displayed around robust forms in a grand manner. 
 Muscles expand and show themselves. A young 
 cavalier of the middle ages is, now, an athlete and an 
 ephebos. Virgins, passive and hooded in their rigid 
 mantles begin to smile and be animated. Their pen- 
 dent, careless Greek robes leave visible the nude 
 breast and the delicate forms of their charming feet. 
 Inclining, half-thrown back, resting on one hip, or 
 haughtily erect and contemplative, they reveal beneath 
 their facile draperies the diversities of the living form, 
 the eye following the harmonious curves of a fine 
 human animal which, in repose, in action, in every atti- 
 tude has only to be allowed to live in order to be 
 perfect and happy. 
 
 Nowhere are these figures more beautiful than on the 
 tomb of the doge Yendramini, deceased in 1470. Art 
 here is still simple and in its early bloom ; ancient 
 gravity still subsists intact ; but the poetic and pictur- 
 esque taste now commencing to dawn casts over it its 
 richness and brilliancy. Under arcades of golden flow- 
 ers, in the spaces of a corinthian colonnade, are warri- 
 ors and females in antique costume, contemplative and 
 weeping. They do not exert themselves or seek to 
 attract attention ; reserve only renders their expression 
 
MOMXJMENTS OF THE DOGES. ^7 
 
 more powerful. The entire body speaks, the type and 
 the structure, the vigorous neck, the magnificent hair 
 and the unimpassioned countenance. One woman 
 raises her eyes mournfully to heaven ; another, half 
 thrown back, utters an exclamation ; one might call 
 them figures by Giovanni Bellini. They are of that 
 puissant, limited era in which the model like the artist, 
 reduced to five or six energetic sentiments, enforces 
 them through a still intact sensibihty, concentrating 
 into one effort complete faculties which at a later pe- 
 riod are to be deadened by dissipation and wasted on 
 details. 
 
 All the grand passions terminate with the sixteenth 
 century. Sepulchres become great operatic contrivan- 
 ces. That of the doge Pesaro, in the Frari, who died 
 in 1669 is simply a gigantic court-decoration rearing 
 upward a massive pile of pompous extravagance. Four 
 negroes clad in white and kneeling on cushions sustain 
 the second story of the tomb, their tawny visages grim- 
 acing over their stout bodies, while, between them, in 
 coarse contrast, parades a skeleton. As for the doge 
 he throws himself back with the self-important air of a 
 grand seigneur as if uttering a Ji, done ! to clowns. 
 Chimeras prance at his feet, a baldachin extends over 
 his head and on its two sides are groups of statues in 
 declamatory and sentimental demeanor. — Elsewhere, in 
 the tomb of the doge Yalier,^ we see art abandoning 
 turgidity for pettiness. The mortuary alcove is envel- 
 oped in a vast curtain of yellow marble wrought with 
 flowers and upheld by a number of little nude angels 
 as frolicsome as so many cupids. The doge displays 
 the dignity of a magistrate, while his wife, frizzled, 
 wrinkled and dressed in flo\\'ing drapery, turns up her 
 left hand with the air of an old dowager. Lower down 
 
 * Deceased in 1656. The tomb, however, (at San Giovanni), is of 
 the XVIII century. 
 
2^^ VENICE. 
 
 an ordinary pier-glass Victory crowns the old gentle- 
 man wlio seems related to Belisarius, and all around 
 are bas-reliefs presenting groups of graceful senti- 
 mental women practising the airs of the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 All this is perverted art, but it is art nevertheless, — 
 that is to say the taste of the sculptor and his contem- 
 poraries was personal and true ; they loved certain 
 things belonging to their own world and existence and 
 these they imitated and adorned; their preferences 
 were not due to academies, to education, to book- 
 pedantry, to conventionahsm. There is nothing else in 
 our century. Canova's monument, so cold insipid and 
 farfetched, executed after his own designs, is ridicu- 
 lous : a great pyramid of white marble fills the entire 
 field of vision ; the door stands open and here the ar- 
 tist desires to rest like a Pharaoh in his sepulchre ; a 
 procession of sentimental figures advances toward the 
 door, Atalas, Eudoras and Cymodoceas, while a nude 
 genii, extinguishing his torch, sleeps, and another, sob- 
 bing, bends his head tenderly downward like young 
 Joseph Bitaube. A winged lion weeps in despair with 
 his nose resting on his paws, and his paws on a book. 
 It would require a twenty minutes' lecture by a profes- 
 sor of the Humanities to make this allegorical drama 
 intelligible, — Near this is a portico-like monument in- 
 flicted on poor Titian, rasped and polished like an old 
 empire clock, decked with four pretty pensive spiritualis- 
 tic women, two poor expressive old men with sharp and 
 salient muscles, and two young barbers with wings 
 bearing crowns. It would seem as if these artists were 
 barren of all personal impressions, that they had noth- 
 ing of their own to say, that the human form had no 
 voice for them, that they had to fall back to their port- 
 folios to find suggestions of its lines, that all their tal- 
 ent lay in composing a curious enigma according to the 
 latest aesthetic and symbolic manual. Death, neverthe- 
 
Titian's st. peter martyr. 249 
 
 less, is important, and it certainly seems that one might 
 say something of one's own about it without a book ; 
 but I begin to tliink that we no longer have any idea of 
 it any more than of any other matter of extreme inter- 
 est. We drive it out of our minds as if it were a disa- 
 greeable and unsuitable guest. When we attend a fu- 
 neral we do it from a sense of propriety, chatting all 
 the time with our neighbor on business or on literature. 
 We have emerged out of the tragical condition. If we 
 apprehend any great misfortune on the horizon it is, at 
 most, an affau' of the pocket, simply involving transi- 
 tion from the first to the fourth story.* Our imagina- 
 tion seems to be absorbed by an infinite diversity of 
 petty excitements and perplexities, visits, correspond- 
 ence, gossip, disappointments and the rest. Smoothed 
 off and frittered away as we are, through what portion 
 of our being or experience could we comprehend the 
 anxieties, the stupendous and prolonged terrors, the 
 corporeal and phrenetic joyousness which once arose 
 like mountains above the level of human life? Art 
 lives on grand determinations as criticism lives on nice 
 distinctions, and hence it is that we are no longer artists 
 but critics. 
 
 The same idea recurs to one on contemplating the 
 paintings. There are many admirable ones in the 
 chapel of the church dedicated to the Sacred Chaplet. 
 One of these by Titian is entitled " St. Peter Martyr." f 
 Domenichino has repeated the same subject at Bologna, 
 but his personages are disfigured by an ignoble fear. 
 Those of Titian are grand, hke combatants. That 
 which impressed him was not the pain or grimaces of a 
 convulsed face, but the powerful action of a murder, 
 the display of an arm bestowing a blow, the agitated 
 drapery of a man in flight, and the magnificent erect 
 
 * Meaning a change from superior to inferior apartments. — Tr. 
 f Lately destroyed by fire. — Tr. 
 
 11* 
 
250 VENICE. 
 
 trunks of trees extending their sombre branches above 
 a scene of bloodshed. Still more vehement is a " Cru- 
 cifixion" by Tintqretto. All is excitement and disorder. 
 The poesy of light and shadow fills the air with brilliant 
 and lugubrious contrasts. A jet of yellow Hght falls 
 across the nude figure of Christ, which seems to be a 
 glorified corpse. Above him float the heads of female 
 saints in a flood of glowing atmosphere while the body 
 of the perverse thief, contorted and savage, embosses 
 the sky with its ruddy muscular forms. In this tem- 
 pest of intense, angry daylight, it seems as if the 
 crosses wavered, and that the sufferers were going to be 
 precipitated ; to complete this grandiose confusion, this 
 poignant emotion, you perceive in the background un- 
 der a luminous cloud a mass of resuscitated bodies. 
 
 The entire top of the wall is covered with paint- 
 ings by the same hand. Christ is ascending into para- 
 dise, and around him are grand naked angels rushing 
 through space and furiously sounding their trumpets. 
 The Virgin is borne off by an impetuous crowd of 
 small angels in various complicated attitudes, whilst 
 beneath her are the apostles shouting and thrown 
 violently backward. Light vibrates on all sides and on 
 all the canvases. There is not an atom of the atmos- 
 phere that does not palpitate ; hfe is so overflowing 
 as to breathe and bubble up fi'om stones, trees, ground 
 and clouds, in every color and in every form that be- 
 long to the universal feverishness of inanimate nature. 
 
CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 PEOMENADES.— SANTA-MARIA DELL' ORTO.-SAN GIOBBE.-LA GUT- 
 DECCA.-I GESUATL— I GESUITI.— MANNERS, CUSTOMS AND CHAR- 
 ACTERS.— MISERY.— PUBLIC SPIRIT.— IDLENESS AND REVERIE AT 
 VENICE. 
 
 April 27. — I see pictures every day by Titian, Tinto- 
 retto and Paul Veronese, but I am not yet ready 
 to speak of them ; they form a complete and too rich 
 a world. Tintoretto especially, is extraordinary ; one 
 can have no idea of him without visiting Venice. 
 
 My walk to-day is to Santa-Maria dell' Orto to see 
 his great paintings of " The Worship of the Golden 
 Calf" and " The Last Judgment." I find the church 
 closed and the pictures rolled up and taken away 
 nobody knows where. The edifice seems to be aban- 
 doned. On one side is a dilapidated cloister broken 
 open and serving as a lumber-yard, with the grass 
 growing fresh and gTeen along the arcades. This 
 is one of my greatest disappointments in Venice. 
 
 The gondolier makes the tour of the city away to 
 the north, and before this plain of light all vexa- 
 tions and disappointments are forgotten. One never 
 tires of the sea, of the infinite horizon, of the little 
 distant bands of earth emerging beneath a dubious 
 verdure, of the strange close-packed streets, almost de- 
 serted, where the bricks of the houses totter, under- 
 mined by the water ; where the piles below, incrusted 
 with shells, are so diminished as to render a crash 
 imminent. San Giobbe appears, a small church of the 
 Renaissance, white and bare outside, excepting an 
 elegant and delicately ornamented entrance. The in- 
 terior overflows with ornament ; a monument by 
 Claude Perrault, extravagant but not lifeless, displays 
 
253 VENICE. 
 
 over a black marble sarcophagus a small sleeping 
 angel, gross and vigorous, related one might say to the 
 Flemish cherubs ; lower down are crowned lions crouch- 
 ing with the grotesque solemnity of heraldic brutes. 
 However decorated or perverted a church in Italy 
 may be it always contains something beautiful and 
 interesting. For example here is a fine picture by 
 Paris Bordone, an old saint with a heavy beard bear- 
 ing a cross between two companions, and, alongside of 
 these, a pretty cloister bordered with columns uniting 
 in arcades and whose cistern, decked with acanthus 
 leaves, blooms luxuriantly above the pavement of the 
 esplanade. These are the agreeable features of these 
 promenades. One knows not what he is to encounter. 
 He starts with two or three names of places in his 
 head and that is all. He ghdes along noiselessly and 
 is never jolted. No one speaks to him. He passes 
 from a gilded temple crowded with figures to a solitary 
 and dilapidated quarter. It seems as if he were 
 liberated from his bodily tenement and that some 
 benevolent genius delighted in feeding his mind with 
 phantasmagoria and wondrous spectacles. 
 
 The gondola skirts Santa-Chiara and the side of the 
 Champ de Mars. The spaces of water become broader 
 and its mottled undulations swell gently under the 
 breeze with an indescribable intermingling of melting 
 tones and hues. This is not ordinary water. En- 
 closed within canals, and tinged by the exudations and 
 infiltrations of the human colony it assumes an earthy 
 ruddiness combined with pale, ochry tints and bluish 
 miry darks, resembling the confused mixture of colors 
 of a painter's palette. Under a northern sky it would 
 be lugubrious ; but here under the illuminating sun 
 and in the silkiness of the tender azure overspreading 
 the celestial canopy it fills the eje with almost physi- 
 cal delight. Veritably one swims in luminousness. 
 It pours down from the sky, the water colors it and the 
 
JESUIT CHUKCHES. »od 
 
 reflections multiply it a hundredfold ; there is nothing, 
 even to the white and rosy houses, which does not re- 
 flect it while the poesy of forms ever adds to and com- 
 pletes the poesy of brightness. Even in this miserable 
 and abandoned quarter we find palaces and facades 
 adorned with columns. Poor and commonplace houses 
 have large balconies enclosed within balustrades and 
 windows indented with trefoils or capped with ogives, 
 and reliefs of intermingled foliage and thorns. One 
 loses himself in reverie. In vain does the Giudecca 
 canal, almost deserted await its flotillas in order to 
 people its noble port ; one muses over nothing but 
 colors and lines. Three hues and three colors form the 
 entire spectacle : the broad moving crystal, of a dark 
 sea-green which winds about with a hard lustrous hue ; 
 above, detached in bold rehef, the row of buildings fol- 
 lowing its curve ; still higher in fine, the pure, infinite 
 and almost pallid sky. 
 
 The gondolier draws up to the quay and pretends 
 that it is necessary to see the church of the Gesuati. 
 We perceive a pompous facade of gigantic composite 
 columns, then a nave whose corinthian colonnade is 
 pretentiously joined to large pillars ; on the flanks, 
 small chapels whose Greek pediments bear curved con- 
 soles ; a coating of variegated marbles, an infinity of 
 statues and bas-reliefs, insipid and very appropriate ; 
 on the ceiling a pretty piece of boudoir painting in the 
 shape of trim, rosy and bare legs ; — in brief a work of 
 frigid luxury and costly magnificence. The Italian 
 eighteenth century is still worse than ours. Our works 
 always show some degree of moderation because they 
 preserve some degree of finesse ; but theirs plant them- 
 selves triumphantly on the extravagant. I saw yester- 
 day a similar church, that of the Gesuiti. Its w^alls 
 and pavement are incrusted with green and w'hite 
 marbles, let into each other in order to form flowers 
 and branchings. On the arches gold twists around in 
 
254 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 the shape of vases, pompons and flourishes, all seeming 
 like the velvet and gilt paper hangings of a drawing- 
 room costly enough to attract the wealthy. The urns, 
 lyres, flames, clusters of foliage and white garlands 
 that emboss the domes could not be counted. Spiral 
 columns of green marble flecked with white support 
 the baldachin of the altar, and, on this, meagre and 
 sentimental statues, — Christ with the cross, God the 
 Father seated on a huge white marble globe, — ^parade 
 themselves supported by angels, both being sheltered 
 by a roof of marble shell-work so odd as to provoke 
 laughter. Grotesque extravagance displays itself even 
 in the grand architectural lines ; not content with ordi- 
 nary forms they have widened the arch of the nave, 
 reducing its curve so low that it resembles the span of 
 a bridge, and flanking this with cupolas that look hke 
 concave bucklers. You feel the effort of a barren and 
 laboring imagination ending in rhetorical superla- 
 tives and in concetti, and which, in polished sonorous 
 periods, furnishes a parlor worship for women and 
 worldlings. 
 
 All these follies of the decadence vanish alongside 
 of two pictures belonging to the great epoch. The 
 first is an " Assumption" by Tintoretto. Around the 
 Virgin's tomb grand old men bend forward and express 
 their amazement with tragic gesture ; they have those 
 vigorous and lordly airs of the head which in the Vene- 
 tian painters agree so well with the violent motion of 
 draperies, and with powerful effects of light, shadow 
 and color. The Virgin, aloft, whirls in the air, and the 
 pallid, drowned changeable tints of her purple robe 
 render still more striking her vigorous brown face, 
 small brow, low hair and virile attitude. A woman of 
 the people possessing the energy and magnificence of 
 a queen, is the idea which arrests the eye ; no painter 
 had a greater admiration of the pomp and sincerity of 
 force. Tintoretto encounters in the street a market or 
 
255 
 
 a boat woman, and bears away with liim lier perfect 
 and rugged image ; lie surrounds lier with the oriental 
 and patrician lustre of princely rank ; he showers the 
 neighborhood with a deluge of small heads cravated 
 with wings, distributing them even over the drapery 
 held by the apostles. He is quite indifferent to the re- 
 semblance of his bevy of angels to a dish of decapi- 
 tated heads ; at one dash he translates the instantane- 
 ous apparition to his canvas and there leaves it, for his 
 work is finished. 
 
 The other picture, a St. Lawrence by Titian, seems a 
 fantasy of some Italian Kembrandt, a vision in gloom. 
 It is night ; at first nothing is distinguishable but a 
 great blackness vaguely spotted with two or three 
 lights. It consists of a wide street. In a dusky tint 
 like that of a cavern illuminated by a dying flambeau 
 you perceive, through their more opaque darkness, 
 some architectural forms, a statue and a distant multi- 
 tude. A peculiar lantern, a sort of torch within iron 
 bars, glimmers at the end of a stick, while the brazier 
 casts its sinister beams along the pavement. Near this 
 a superb executioner, a sort of tragic porter, leans 
 backward, the muscles of his breast swelling with 
 vinous tones in powerful relief on a herculean torso ; 
 around him black reflections rest on cuirasses, or trem- 
 ble on the blue steel of the lances. Meanwhile a 
 luminous flame descends from the sky above, piercing 
 the shadows like a glory, a bright gleam falling on the 
 white figure of the martyr, and arousing on its passage 
 the yellow flickerings, indistinct palpitations and mys- 
 terious floating dust in the shadows. 
 
 April 27. — Manners, customs and character. — I go this 
 evening to the Benedetto theatre. Toward midnight, 
 on returning, the dimly lighted and crooked streets, 
 lost between the high houses, seem like places of 
 ambush. 
 
 The audience is poor ; the house is almost empty ; 
 
256 VENICE. 
 
 out of a large number of boxes there are only about 
 twenty half filled. Many of the lower class of the 
 hourgeoisie and even the common people are in the 
 parterre. And yet the house is beautiful. 
 
 They play this evening, "Mary Stuart" translated 
 from Schiller. To-morrow they are to give un interes- 
 santissima comedia del Signore Dumas padre, Mademoi^ 
 selle de Belle-lie. I have seen others by him at Flor- 
 ence. We furnish the whole of Europe with vaude- 
 villes, comedy, agreeable romances, toilet objects, etc. 
 I have seen abroad, on the tables of nobles, collections 
 of free songs, and, in splendid libraries, Paul de Kock's 
 novels, richly bound, on the lowest shelves. By our 
 works we are judged: dancing-masters, hairdressers, 
 vaudevillists, lorettes and milliners, — but few other 
 titles are bestowed upon us, save, perhaps, that of 
 soldiers. 
 
 The theatrical corps is as pitiful as possible. The 
 faces of the musicians are subjects for pictures: one 
 might pronounce them fatigued, haggard old tailors. 
 The prompter prompts so loud that his voice sounds 
 like a continuous bass. Mary Stuart in a black velvet 
 robe, has the hands of a washerwoman ; she must cer- 
 tainly cook her own dinner and sweep her own room ; 
 otherwise she has vigor, a sort of furious and brutal 
 energy. Elizabeth, rouged by the square foot, attired 
 in frills and mock jewelry, responds to her in a shrill 
 and stifled voice ; both of them are market-women 
 showing their teeth. In order to get Mortimer to 
 assassinate her rival she rants like a maniac. All 
 overdo the matter horribly, which, perhaps, is requisite 
 for an Italian parterre. Mary Stuart is called out three 
 times after the scene when she upbraids Elizabeth. 
 
 This is only a second-class theatre. "La Eenice" 
 and the other leading theatres are closed. The nation 
 is so hostile to Austria that a noble, indifferent or 
 politic, would not dare to go to them ; it would be re- 
 
TAXATION. 257 
 
 garded as a sign of satisfaction and lie would be 
 hooted at. With such a disposition before them thea- 
 tres may well decline. Everything indeed is declining. 
 The " Guidecca," which is a capacious harbor has 
 scarcely any vessels in it ; all commerce and business go 
 to Trieste. The city is cut off from the Milanese by 
 custom-houses. People do not work ; dejection under- 
 mines all effort as it undermines all pleasure ; the no- 
 bles live immured on their estates ; many of the palaces 
 have degenerated and some seem to be abandoned. Out 
 of a hundred and twenty thousand inhabitants there are 
 forty thousand poor, thirty thousand of which live on 
 alms and are inscribed on the charity registers. I have 
 seen the report of the podestat, Count Piero Luigi, for 
 the last four years. Out of 780,000 florins expended, 
 10,000 went for instruction, 129,000 for benevolent 
 purposes and 94,000 for public charity. I visited the 
 hospital for the insane and I have its statistics ; the 
 pellagre,^ bad food and excessive poverty furnish the 
 gi'eatest number of the demented. Taxes, it must be 
 said, are overwhelming. I am told of a house having 
 an income of 1,000 florins which pays a tax of 400. 
 A podere, that is to say a piece of ground with a habi- 
 tation on it, brings 1,130 francs and pays 500. Another 
 house, at Venice, is let at 238 florins and pays 64. In 
 general a piece of real estate pays the third of its 
 revenue. This big slice once devoured the fiscal teeth 
 operate on another taxable piece. Besides imposts on 
 successions, transmissions, food and others, besides 
 those on rent and for the privilege of trading, there is a 
 sort of income tax as in England. According to the 
 merchant ^^ho furnishes me with these particulars this 
 tax is a twentieth. A merchant pays the twentieth of 
 his estimated profits, an emploj^e the twentieth of his 
 salary. It is the worse for him if at the end of 
 
 * A local cutaneous disease. — Tr. 
 
258 VENICE. 
 
 the year Lis gain proves less than he anticipated. It 
 is still worse if it be nothing, and worse yet if he 
 should make a . loss. He is obliged to make his 
 declaration in advance under oath. If he is convicted 
 of having concealed any portion of his profits he pays a 
 heavy penalty and, moreover, he is amenable to the 
 penalty imposed on perjurers. Spies selected for the 
 purpose speculate on his condition ; they calculate 
 how much he expends per day, — so much for rent, so 
 much for assistance and servants and so much for pro- 
 visions; then, conjecturing what the profits may be 
 according to the expenses, they control his declaration. 
 This forms a sort of inquisition which discourages all 
 industry. In this state of misery and inertia it is only 
 the foreigners who have money, and all contend for 
 them. Nowhere in Italy is hving so cheap for the 
 traveller ; a boat for an entire day costs five francs ; at 
 the slightest nod the gondoliers rush forward ; they 
 strive to get ahead of each other and beg you to take 
 them by the week at a discount ; there is no city where 
 a man of moderate means and an amateur of the beau- 
 tiful could be better off in a pecuniary way and indulge 
 his day-dreams ; it is only necessary to neglect 
 politics. The Venetians, it is true, do not neglect 
 them. On asking a peasant woman if the Austrians 
 were liked in the country, she replied " We like them, 
 but outside (fuoriy) My poor old gondolier, on telling 
 me of his poverty, added by way of consolation, " Gari- 
 baldi will do something." — It seems that everybody 
 here, even the Mayor, an official magistrate, is a 
 patriot. It is well known that in 1848 the people, 
 armed with pieces of broken pavement, drove away the 
 Austrian soldiers and fought with courageous obstinacy 
 after the defeat of the Piedmontese at Novara. On 
 the French squadron coming in sight of the city during 
 the late war the people became wild with excitement 
 and, what is more, the excitement lasted. At the first 
 
PATRIOTIC FEELING. 259 
 
 shot from tlie fleet the revolt was to break out ; the 
 common people, the gondoKers, all were prepared. 
 Several of them became insane on hearing of the 
 armistice. Many emigrated and have since estab- 
 lished themselves in Lombardy ; they could not get 
 accustomed to the idea that Venice, which for so many 
 years in Italy had escaped a foreign yoke, should alone 
 remain in the hands of strangers : imagine five or six 
 sisters in a family having become ladies and the last 
 one and the most beautiful, the charming Cinderella, 
 remaining a domestic. 
 
 "Whether domestic or lady she is to the traveller ever 
 the most gracious and poetic of all ; in contemplating 
 her one has to make an effort in order to think of 
 graver matters, on the interests of politics ; Austrian 
 or Italian she is a fairy. One would like to dwell here. 
 What dreams six months would furnish ! "What delight- 
 ful promenades through art and history ! The library 
 of San Marco contains a breviary which HemHng, the 
 great painter of Bruges, has filled with his delicate 
 figures. There are ephemerides by Sanudo in fifty- 
 eight volumes, daily recorded and describing the man- 
 ners and customs at the beginning of the sixteenth 
 century, the brightest epoch of painting. What a 
 happy life, that of any historian, amateur of pictures, 
 who might come here to study, to meditate, to write ! 
 Glancing up from his page he would see on the ceiling 
 of the library the " Adoration of the Magi" by Vero- 
 nese, its figures fi-amed between two grand pieces of 
 architecture, the noble white head and splendid figured 
 robe of the first king, of his retinue, of all the charac- 
 ters displaj^ed, that white horse rearing in the hands 
 of an amply, draped attendant, the two angels over- 
 head, the exquisite carnation of their nude limbs and 
 the rare beauty of their rosy vestments seemingly dip- 
 ped in magical light. One would readily appreciate 
 the idea exhaling from all this pomp, that of a joyous, 
 
2G0 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 expansive, unrestrained force, but ever noble, which 
 swims in full prosperity and in full contentment. One 
 would descend the marble staircases and leisurely 
 enjoy luxuries which no monarch in Europe possesses. 
 One would contemplate on a quay, in the shadow filled 
 with watery reflections, some of the figures which for- 
 merly supplied the great masters with their personages, 
 some blonde and ruddy girl with hair flying around her 
 brow and playing in careless flow ; the tanned and 
 sombre visage and neck of some boatman under an 
 old straw hat ; the great bulging nose, bright eyes and 
 ample gray beard of some old fellow serving as a model 
 for Titian's patriarchs; the white and somewhat fat 
 neck, rosy cheeks, fine beaming eyes and waving 
 tresses of some young girl tripping along and lifting 
 her dress. One would feel the fertility and freedom of 
 the geniuses who, from these slight, incomplete and 
 scattered motives, derived so rich and so majestic a 
 symphony. One would stray off to the Slaves' quay, 
 to a little bench I know well, and there, in the cool 
 shade, he would contemplate the marvellous expansion 
 of sunlight, the sea still more glowing than the sky, 
 the long smooth waves succeeding each other and 
 bearing on their backs innumerable and tranquil 
 sparkles, the hght ripples, the quivering eddies beneath 
 their golden scales ; and, farther on, the churches, the 
 ruddy houses rising upward from the midst of polished 
 glass, and that eternal, rustling, moving splendor which 
 seems like one beautiful smile. One would push on to 
 the public gardens to gaze on the remoter islands on the 
 vague banks of sand and the opening sea. All is a 
 plain here up to the horizon, a glittering plain trem- 
 bling with flashes, and blue-green like a sombre tur- 
 quoise. The eyes would always be virginal to this 
 sensation. They would never become satiated in 
 looking at these masses of piles strewing the azure 
 with their black specks, these flat islets forming a deli- 
 
VENETIAN DELIGHTS. 261 
 
 cate line below the sky on the verge of the sea, farther 
 on a belfry, the white spot of an illuminated house 
 which at this distance seems no larger than the hand, 
 and here and there the ruby sail of a fisherman's bark 
 returning homeward slowly impelled by the breeze. 
 One would finish the day on the Square of San-Marco, 
 between a sorbet and a bouquet of violets, listening 
 to BeUini's or Yerdi's airs played by the wandering 
 musicians. The eyes meanwhile would fix themselves 
 on the firmament above the illuminated square seem- 
 ingly a dome of black velvet incrusted with silver 
 nails; they would follow the outline of the Basilica, 
 white like a marble gem, displaying in the darkness its 
 rounded bouquets of columns and its fretwork of 
 statues. One would thus pass a year like an opium- 
 smoker, and to good account, for, the only true way to 
 endure life is to be insensible to it. 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 THE LATTER DAYS.— EPICUREANISM.— CANALETTI, GUARDI, LONGHI, 
 GOLDONI AND GOZZI.— THE CARNIVAL.— LICENSE.— THE LIDO.— 
 THE SEA.— THE TOWER OF SAN-MARCO.— THE CITY, THE WATER 
 AND THE SANDS. 
 
 It is about in this fashion that the people in this 
 country contrived to support their decadence. This 
 beautiful city ended, pagan-hke, like its sisters the Greek 
 republics, through nonchalance and voluptuousness. 
 We find, indeed, from time to time, a Francis Morosini 
 who, like Aratus and Philopoemen, renews the heroism 
 and victories of ancient days ; but, after the seventeenth 
 century, its bright career is over. The city, municipal 
 and circumscribed, is found to be weak, like Athens and 
 Corinth, against powerful military neighbors who either 
 neglect or tolerate it ; the French and the Germans vio- 
 late its neutrality with impunity ; it subsists and that is 
 all, and it pretends to do no more. Its nobles care only 
 to amuse themselves ; war and politics with them recede 
 in the background ; she becomes gallant and worldly. 
 With Palma the younger and Padovinano high art falls ; 
 contours soften and become round; inspiration and sen- 
 timent diminish, stiffness and conventionalism are about 
 to rule. Artists no longer know how to portray simple 
 and vigorous bodies ; Tiepolo, the last of the ceiling 
 decorators, is a mannerist seeking the melodramatic in 
 his religious subjects and excitement and effect in his al- 
 legorical subjects, purposely upsetting columns, over- 
 throwing pyramids, rending clouds and scattering his 
 figures in a way that gives to his scenes the aspect of a 
 volcano in eruption. With him, Canaletti, Guardi and 
 Longhi, begins another art, that of genre and landscape. 
 
LOVE OF PLEASUEE. »0d 
 
 The imagination declines ; they copy the petty scenes 
 of actual life, and make pleasing views of surrounding 
 edifices ; they imitate the dominos, the pretty faces and 
 the coquettish and provoking airs of contemporary 
 ladies. These are represented at their toilets, at their 
 music-lessons and getting out of bed ; they paint charm- 
 ing, languishing, smiling, arch and disdainful belles, 
 genuine boudoir queens, whose small feet in satin shoes, 
 pliant forms and delicate arms shrouded in laces fix the 
 attention and secure the compliments of men. Taste 
 grows refined and fastidious the same time that it be- 
 comes insipid and circumscribed. But the evening of 
 this fallen city is as mellow and as brilliant as a Vene- 
 tian sunset. With the absence of care gaiety prevails. 
 One encounters nothing but public and private fetes in 
 the memoirs of their writers and in the pictures of their 
 painters. At one time it is a pompous banquet in a 
 superb saloon festooned with gold, with tall lustrous 
 w^indows and pale crimson curtains, the doge in his 
 simarre dining with the magistrates in purple robes, and 
 masked guests gliding over the floor ; nothing is more 
 elegant than the exquisite aristocracy of their small 
 feet, their slender necks and their jaunty little three- 
 cornered hats among skirts flounced with yellow or 
 pearly gray silks. At another it is a regatta of gondo- 
 las and we see on the sea between San-Marco and San- 
 Giorgio, around the huge Bucentaur like a leviathan 
 cuirassed with scales of gold, flotillas of boats parting 
 the water with their steel becks. A crowd of pretty 
 dominos, male and female, flutter over the pavements ; 
 the sea seems to be of polished slate under a tender 
 azure sky spotted with cloud-flocks while all around, as 
 in a precious frame, like a fantastic border carved and 
 embroidered, the Procuraties, the domes, the palaces 
 and the quays thronged with a joyous multitude, encir- 
 cle the great maritime sheet. A company of seignors 
 who are at Pavia with Goldoni, in order to return to 
 
264 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 Venice, send for a large pleasure-barge covered with an 
 awning, decked with paintings and sculpture and fur- 
 nished with books and musical instruments ; there are 
 ten masters and they travel only by day, leisurely and 
 selecting good halting-places or, in default of these, 
 lodging in the rich Benedictine monasteries. All play 
 on some instrument, one on the vioHncello, three on the 
 violin, two on the oboe, one on the hunting-horn and the 
 other on the guitar. Goldoni, who alone is not a musi- 
 cian, versifies the little occurrences of the voyage and 
 recites them after the coffee. Every evening they as- 
 cend on deck in order to give a concert, and the people 
 on the two banks of the stream assemble in crowds wav- 
 ing their handkerchiefs and applauding. On reaching 
 Cremona they are welcomed with transports of joy ; 
 the inhabitants honor them with a grand banquet ; the 
 concert recommences, the local musicians join them and 
 the night is given up to dancing. At each new evening 
 halt there is the same festivity.* One cannot imagine 
 a readier or more universal disposition for refined amuse- 
 ments. Protestants like Misson, who chance to witness 
 this kind of hfe, do not comprehend it and only make 
 scandalous reports of it. The way of considering things 
 there is as pagan as in the time of Polybius, for the rea- 
 son that moral preoccupations and the germanic idea of 
 duty could never take root there. In the days of the 
 Reformation one writer already states that " there was 
 never known to be one Venetian belonging to the party 
 of Luther, Calvin and the rest ; all follow the doctrines 
 of Epicurus and of Cremonini his interpreter, the lead- 
 ing professor of philosophy at Padua, which affirm that 
 the soul is engendered like that of the brute animal 
 through the virtue of its own seed and accordingly that 
 it is mortal. . . . And among the partisans of this doc- 
 trine are found the elite of the city, and in particular 
 
 * Memoii's of Goldoni, Part I. Cliap. XII. 
 
DEMORALIZATION. 265 
 
 those who take part in the government.""^ In truth 
 they never concern themselves with religion except to 
 repress the Pope ; in theory and in practice, in ideas 
 and in instincts, they inherit the manners, customs and 
 spirit of antiquity, and their Christianity is only a name. 
 Like the ancients, they were at first heroes and artists, 
 and then voluptuaries and diolettanti ; in one as in the 
 other case they, like the ancients, confined life to the 
 present. In the eighteenth century they might be com- 
 pared to the Thebans of the decadence who, leagued 
 together to consume their property in common, be- 
 queathed what remained of their fortunes on dying to 
 the survivors at their banquets. The carnival lasts six 
 months ; everybody, even the priests, the guardian of 
 the capucins, the nuncio, little children, all who frequent 
 the markets, wear masks. People pass by in proces- 
 sions disguised in the costumes of Frenchmen, lawyers, 
 gondoHers, Calabrians and Spanish soldiery, dancing 
 and with musical instruments ; the crowd follows jeering 
 or applauding them. There is enth'e liberty ; prince or 
 artisan, all are equal ; each may apostrophize a mask. 
 Pyramids of men form "pictures of strength" on the 
 public squares ; harlequins in the open air perform pa- 
 rades. Seven theatres are open. ImjDrovisators declaim 
 and comedians improvise amusing scenes. " There is 
 no cit}^ where license has such sovereign rule."t Pres- 
 ident De Brosses counts here twice as many courtezans 
 as at Paris, all of charming sweetness and politeness 
 and some of the highest tone. "During the carnival 
 there are under the Procuratie arcade as many women 
 rechning as there are standing. Lately five hundred 
 courtiers of love have been arrested." Judge of the 
 
 * Discorso Aristocratico, quoted by Darn, Vol. IV. p. 171. 
 
 f See the pictures of the Carnival by Tiepolo, the Memoirs of Gozzi, 
 Goldoni and Casanova, the travels of President De Brosses, and 
 especially the four German volumes of Maier, 1795 ; — in the seven- 
 teenth century, Amelot de la Iloussaye, Saint-Didier, etc. 
 
 13- 
 
266 YENICE. 
 
 traffic. Opinion favors it ; a noble has Ms mistress come 
 for him in a gondola on leaving the church of San-Mar- 
 co ; a Procurator in a dressing-go^vn stands at his win- 
 dow and publicly interchanges amorous signals with a 
 well-known courtezan residing opposite to him. " A 
 husband does not scruple to state in his own. house that 
 he is going to dine with his mistress and his wife sends 
 there whatever he orders." On the other hand ^dves 
 compensate themselves ; whatever they do is tolerated. 
 " F donna maritata,'' excuses everything. " It would be 
 a kind of dishonor for a wife not to be in public rela- 
 tionship with some man." The husband never accom- 
 panies her — it would be ridiculous ; he permits a sigisbe 
 to do so in his place. Sometimes this substitute is de- 
 signated in the marriage contract ; he visits the lady in 
 the morning when she arises, takes chocolate with her, 
 assists at her toilet accompanies her everywhere and 
 is her servant ; frequently, when very noble, she has 
 five or six, and the spectacle is curious to see her at the 
 churches giving her arm to one, her handkerchief to 
 another and her gloves or mantle to another. The fash- 
 ion prevails in the convents. " Every charming young 
 nun has her attendant cavalier." Most of these recluses 
 are immured by force and they insist on living like wo- 
 men of the world. They are fascinating A^dth "their 
 crisp, curly hair, white gauze kerchief projectiag over 
 their brow, white camlet frock and flowers placed on 
 their open breast." They receive any one they please 
 and send their friends sugar-plums and bouquets ; dur- 
 ing the carnival they disguise themselves as ladies and 
 even as men, and thus enter the parlor and invite masked 
 courtezans there. They go out of doors and in the 
 work of that scapegrace Casanova we may see for what 
 purpose. De Brosses states that on his arrival intrigues 
 between the convents were active in order to decide 
 *' which should have the honor of giving a mistress to 
 the new nuncio." In truth there is no longer any family 
 
STATE OF THE FAMILY. 267 
 
 life. After the seventeentli century men say that 
 " marriage is purely a civil ceremony which binds opin- 
 ion and not conscience." Of several brothers one alone, 
 ordinarily, marries ; the embarrassment of perpetuat- 
 ing the family falls on him ; the others often live under 
 the same roof with him and are the sigisbes of his wife. 
 Three or four combine together to support a mistress 
 in common. The poor traf&c with their daughters quite 
 young. " Out of ten who are abandoned" Saint-Didier 
 already states, " there are nine whose mothers and aunts 
 themselves negotiate the bargain." Thereupon follow 
 some details which one would suppose to be taken from 
 the oriental bazaars. With the dissolution of the fam- 
 ily comes the abandonment of the domestic hearth. 
 There is no visiting ; people meet each other at public 
 or private casinos, of which some are for ladies and 
 some for men. There are no home comforts ; a palace is 
 a museum, a family memorial, only a resting-place for 
 the night. " The Foscarini palace contains two hun- 
 dred rooms filled with wealth, but not one chamber or 
 chair offering a seat on account of the delicate carvings." 
 Domestic authority has disappeared. " Parents dress 
 their children ostentatiously as soon as they can walk." 
 Boys of five or six years of age are seen wearing black 
 hooded sacques trimmed with lace and figured with sil- 
 ver and gold. They are spoiled to excess ; the father 
 dares not scold them. When they get to be seventeen 
 or eighteen he gives them mistresses ; a Procurator, 
 grieving at the loss of the company of a son who passes 
 his time with a courtezan goes and beseeches him to 
 bring her home with him. This demorahzation extends 
 from manners to dress ; people are seen attending mass 
 or frequenting the public squares in slippers and in 
 dressing-gowns under their black cloaks. Many of the 
 indigent nobles live as parasites at the expense of the 
 coffee-house keepers, of whom they are the pest. Oth- 
 ers, half-ruined, pass most of the day in bed, their feet 
 
/5b» VENICE. 
 
 protruding through tattered sheets, and the abbe of the 
 house, meanwhile, composing for them licentious stories. 
 In this corruption, following upon the death of militant 
 virtues, only one living trait subsists, the love of beauty. 
 Delicate, spirituelle painting of landscape and of genre 
 flourishes up to the last. Music is born and soon passes 
 from the church to the theatre. Four hospitals of aban- 
 doned young gMs furnish so many seminaries of musi- 
 cians and of incomparable singers. Almost every even- 
 ing, there is on the banks of the Grand Canal an " acad- 
 emy" with music, and "with an inconceivable gather- 
 ing," of people who crowd to it in gondolas and along 
 the quays in order to enjoy it. At the theatre the light 
 capricious fancy of Gozzi throws over their misery a 
 diaphanous tissue of golden reveries and diverting gro- 
 tesques. Noble races are beautiful even in ruin ; the 
 poetic imagination which illuminated the vigorous years 
 of their youth accompanies them even to the brink of 
 the grave in order to warm and to color their last mo- 
 ments, and this privilege saves their decrepitude as well 
 as their adult age from the only two unpardonable 
 vices, bitterness and vulgarity. 
 
 The Lido. — One can do nothing here but dream. 
 And yet dream is not the proper word since it simply 
 denotes a wandering of the brain, a coming and going 
 of vague ideas ; if one dreams at Venice it is through 
 sensations and not through ideas. For the hundredth 
 time to-day I have remarked, looking west, the peculiar 
 color of the water in the vicinity of the sand-banks, 
 consisting of the dun tints of Florentine bronze crawl- 
 ing with sinuous gleams of light. The sunset glow is 
 depicted on it and is there transformed into tones of 
 reddish or greenish orange. Occasionally the tint be- 
 comes auroral like silk drapery inflated and tossed by 
 a current of air. Beyond, the infinite and imperceptible 
 motion of the great blue surface mingles, unites and ex- 
 tends between sky and sea a network of radiant white- 
 
THE LIDO. 269 
 
 ness ; the boat swims in light ; only around it is seen 
 the mingled green and azure, always changing, always 
 the same. 
 
 In an hour we reach the Lido, a long bank of sand 
 protecting Venice from the open sea. In the middle is 
 a church with a village and, around it, gardens pali- 
 saded with straw and filled with young fruit-trees, all 
 in full bloom. On the left runs an avenue of older 
 trees, revived, however, with the early spring ; their 
 round tops are already white Uke bridal bouquets. On 
 advancing a hundred yards the broad sea appears, no 
 longer motionless and converted into a lake as at Yen- 
 ice but wild and roaring with the eternal resonance of 
 its flux and reflux and the dash of its foaming surge. 
 No one is visible on this long sandy bar ; the most one 
 sees at intervals, on turning an angle, is the gray capote 
 of a sentinel. No human sound. I walk along in 
 silence and gradually find myself enveloped in the 
 grand monotonous voice of nature; each step is im- 
 printed on the wet sand ; the shells crackle under the 
 crushing feet ; hundreds of little crabs run away 
 obliquely and when caught by the wave seek refuge in 
 the ground. Meanwhile night comes on, and in front 
 to the east, all grows dark. In the deepening obscurity 
 two or three white sails are still discernible ; these disap- 
 pear ; the green tones of the water become darker and 
 darker until dro^Tied in the universal night ; from 
 time to time a single wave breaks its snowy crest and 
 falls with a feeble tremor upon the beach. On all 
 sides, like the dull clamor of distant hounds, rises a 
 hoarse and infinite roar which in the absence of other 
 sensations, menaces the soul with its threats, reviving 
 the idea, lost at Venice, of the indomitable and malevo- 
 lent power of the sea. 
 
 On returning, and toward sunset, the sky seems like 
 a brasier, and the rampart of houses, towers and 
 churches rays the ruddy glow with opaque blackness. 
 
270 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 It is actually the image of a vast conflagration, like 
 those occurring in the upheavals of the globe when 
 eruptions of lava have buried the vegetation of ages. 
 It seems to be a furnace let loose and flaming yonder 
 out of sight, and yet throwing up volleys of sparks in 
 sight with the sombre scarlet of still blazing trunks 
 and of the smothered and deadened brands amassed 
 by the crumbling and crash of mighty forests. Their 
 funereal shadows lengthen out infinitely on the ruddy 
 waves and vanish in the night abeady covering the 
 heaving sea with its pall. 
 
 April 29. — I promised to write you something about 
 Venetian painting, and yet day after day I defer it. 
 There are too many great works, and the work is too 
 original ; one experiences here too many emotions and 
 lives too bountifully and too fast ; it is like living in a 
 green and primitive forest; it is much easier to sit 
 down and gaze than to seek for a path and embrace 
 the whole ; you resign yourself and grow indolent, and 
 are always repeating that this or that must be seen 
 over and over again. You are at last wearied out body 
 and soul and say to yourself, to-morrow. The next 
 day a fresh idea comes — for example, this morning at 
 daybreak I ascended the tower of San-Marco. 
 
 From the top of this tower you see Yenice and the 
 entire lagune ; at this height man's works never seem 
 to be more than those of beavers ; nature reappears, 
 just as she is, sole subsistent, vast, scarcely defaced or 
 spotted here and there with our petty ephemeral life. 
 All is sand and sea ; only one grand flat plane is visible 
 barred to the north by a wall of snow-peaks, a sort of 
 intermediary domain between the dry and the fluid 
 element, an infecund territory varied by neutral sands 
 and lustrous pools. Eed islets, washed by the falling 
 tide, send forth vague slaty reflections. All around 
 are tortuous canals and motionless surfaces mingling 
 the infinite confusion of their shapes and the metallic 
 
YIEW FEOM SAN- MARCO. 271 
 
 niellos of tlieir leaden waters. It is a desert, a strange 
 dead desert. Tliere is no life save a flotilla of boats 
 returning to port and oscillating beneath tlieir orange 
 sails. From time to time, beyond the Lido, a jet of sun- 
 shine piercing the clouds casts on the broad sea a bril- 
 liant ray like a flashing sword severing a sombre 
 mantle. One may remain here for hours, indifferent to 
 all human interests, before the uniform dialogue of two 
 grand objects, the concave sky and the flat earth, occu- 
 pying space and the field of being. Between two troops 
 of blonde clouds rushes a breath of sea-air. They pass 
 in turn before the thin crescent moon which indefat- 
 igably buries her blade in their mass like a scythe in a 
 field of ripened grain. 
 
BOOK VI 
 
 VENETIAN ART. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 CLIMATE.-TEMPEKAMENT.— ART, AN ABSTRACT OF LIFE.-MAN IN 
 THE INTERVAL BETWEEN HEROIC AND DEGENERATE ERAS. 
 
 Ajwil 30, 1864. — I find it more difficult to speak of 
 Venetian painters than of any others. Before their 
 pictures one has no disposition to analyze and discuss ; 
 if it is done it is an effort. The eyes enjoy and that 
 is all ; they enjoy the same as those of the Yenetians 
 of the sixteenth century ; for Yenice was not a literary 
 or critical city like Florence, painting there being simply 
 the complement of surrounding voluptuousness, the 
 decoration of a banquet-hall or of an architectural 
 alcove. In order to explain this to himseK a man 
 must withdraw to a distance and close his eyes, and 
 wait until his sensations become subdued ; the mind 
 then does its office. Here are three or four prelim- 
 inary ideas ; on such a subject a man divines and 
 sketches but does not perfect. 
 
 Yenice is not only a distinct city differing from other 
 cities in Italy, free from the beginning and for thirteen 
 hundred years, but again a distinct community differing 
 from all others, having a soil, a sky, a climate, and an 
 atmosphere of its own. Compared with Florence, 
 which is the other centre, it is an aquatic world by the 
 side of a terrestrial world. Man here has not the same 
 field of vision. Instead of clear contours, sober tones 
 and motionless planes the eye ever finds, in the first 
 
ATMOSPHERIC PECULIAEITIES. -''> 
 
 place, a moving and brilliant surface, a varied and uni- 
 form reflection of light, an exquisite union of varied and 
 melting tones prolonged without fixed limit into those 
 in contact with them ; and then a soft vapory haze due 
 to an incessant evaporation from the water enveloping 
 all forms, rendering distances blue and filling the sky 
 with magnificent clouds ; again the contrast wdiich the 
 hard, intense and lustrous color of the water every- 
 where opposes to the subdued and stony hue of 
 the edifices it bathes. In a dr}^ country the eye is im- 
 pressed by the line, in a wet one by the spot. This is 
 very evident in Holland and in Flanders. The eye 
 there is not arrested by delicacies of contour half- 
 blurred by the intermediate moist atmosphere ; it fixes 
 itself on harmonies of color enlivened by the universal 
 freshness and graduated by the variable density of am- 
 bient vapor. In the same way at Venice, and, save 
 the differences which separate this sea-green element 
 and these empurpled sands from the dingy mire and 
 sooty sky of Amsterdam or of Antwerp, the eye, as at 
 Antw^erp and Amsterdam, becomes colorist. Proof of 
 this may be found in the early architecture of the 
 Venetians, in these stripes of porphyry, serpentine and 
 precious marbles incrusting their palaces ; in the som- 
 bre purple starred with gold filling San-Marco; in 
 their original and persistent taste for the lustrous 
 tints and luminous embroideries of mosaic and in the 
 vivacity and brilliancy of their oldest national paintings. 
 Vivarini, Carpaccio and Crivelli, and later John 
 Bellini, already announce the splendor of the coming 
 masters. These almost always used oil, finding fi-esco 
 too dull ; and Vasari like a true Florentine, reproaches 
 Titian for painting " immediately from nature and not 
 making a preparatory design, imagining that the only 
 and best w^a}^ to obtain a good design is to use color at 
 once without previously studying contours with a 
 pencil on paper." 
 
3'^4 VENETIAN ART. 
 
 A second reason and a stronger one is that besides 
 the surroundings of a man the climate modifies his 
 temperament and his instincts. Physiologists have 
 only glanced at this truth, but it is plain to all who 
 travel.*^ The living body is a condensed, organized gas, 
 plunged into the atmosphere and constantly wasting 
 and renewing itself, in such a way that man forms a 
 portion of his milieu incessantly renewed by his milieu. 
 According to the gTeater or less difficulty or rapidity of 
 the escape or absorption of the entire machine so is 
 its tension and its activity different; cerebral opera- 
 tions, like the rest, depend on the ease and the ra- 
 pidity of the current of which, hke the rest, they form 
 a wave. A northern man, for instance, absorbs and 
 wastes two or three times as much as a southern man, 
 and consequently his sensibility, that is to say the sud- 
 denness and vehemence of his emotions, are two or 
 three times less great. Compare a peasant or a horse 
 of Friesland in Holland with a peasant or a horse of 
 Berri in France ; a Lombard Italian with a Calabrian 
 Italian and a Russian with an Arab.t We are as yet 
 ignorant of the precise laws which apportion to the 
 colder or moister atmosphere, alimentation, respira- 
 tion, muscular force, capacity for emotion and genera- 
 tion of diverse orders of ideas ; but it is plain that such 
 laws exist. Everywhere, and powerfully, climate, 
 physical temperament and moral structure interdepend 
 like three successive links of a chain ; whoever dis- 
 turbs the fiirst, disturbs the second and, consequently. 
 
 * Experiments have been made with a view to ascertain the effect 
 of a carnivorous diet. French workmen performing half as much 
 labor as English workmen were fed on meat ; at the end of a year 
 their capacity for labor, that is to say, their powers of attention and 
 their muscular energy, had doubled. 
 
 f The Duke of Wellington says : "When a French army has the 
 necessary, a Spanish army has too much and the English army is 
 dying with hunger." 
 
VENETIAN SENSUOUSNESS. 275 
 
 the third. Venice and the valley of the Po are the 
 Netherlands of Italy ; hence it is that temperament 
 and character are here transformed as they are in the 
 Netherlands of the north. We find here, the same as in 
 Flanders, bright rosy carnations, blonde and red hair, 
 soft, pulpy and slightly flabby flesh in contrast with 
 the black hair, energetic spareness, noble sculptural 
 features and firm muscles of the Italians of central 
 Italy. We find here as in Flanders, a passionate 
 fondness for sensuous enjoyment, exquisite appreciation 
 of material resources, and an inferior hterary or spec- 
 ulative spirit, forming a contrast to the subtle, argumen- 
 tative, delicate intellect tending to purism, running 
 through all the lives and writings of the Florentines.* 
 In the beginning, architecture so gay and so little clas- 
 sic, voluptuous tastes after the fifteenth century,t 
 later, a publicity of pleasure, the six months carnival 
 and registered and innumerable courtezans, music a 
 state institution, at all times magnificence of costumes 
 and of festivals, pompous, variegated dalmatics, em- 
 broidered silk robes, a prodigality of gold and dia- 
 monds, constant contact with oriental magnificence and 
 fancy, fixed toleration in religious matters and allow- 
 able indifference in political matters, exuberant pros- 
 perity, voluptuousness encouraged, supineness pro- 
 scribed, all announce the same primitive and leading 
 disposition, that is to say an aptitude for imbuing 
 sensual life with poesy and a talent for combining 
 enjoyment with beauty. It is this national naturalness 
 which the painters represent in their types ; this it is 
 which they flatter in their coloring ; its effects and 
 surroundings are displayed by them in their silks, 
 
 ^ The Florentines called the Venetians grossolani. 
 
 f Antonella da Messina, says Vasari, went to reside in Venice, in 
 which city he introduced oil-painting. He preferred this city and 
 v/as much esteemed and caressed by the nobles, " being a person 
 much addicted to pleasure and licentiousness." 
 
^^Q VENETIAN AET. 
 
 velvets and pearls, in their balustrades, their colon- 
 nades and their gildings. It is more clearly seen in 
 them than in itself. They have disengaged, defined 
 and incorporated it in a visible shape. Great artists, 
 everywhere, are the heralds and interpreters of their 
 community ; Jordsens, Grayer, Rubens in Flanders and 
 Titian, Tintoretto and Veronese in Venice. Their in- 
 stinct and their intuition make them naturalists, psy- 
 chologists, historians and philosophers ; they ruminate 
 over the idea constituting their race and their epoch, 
 and the broad and involuntary sympathy forming their 
 genius brings together and organizes in their minds in 
 true proportions the infinite and commingled elements 
 of the society in which they are comprised. Their tact 
 goes farther than science, and the ideal being they 
 fetch to light is the most powerful summary, the live- 
 liest concentrated image, the most complete and defi- 
 nite figure of the real beings amongst whom they have 
 dwelt. They again seize the mould in which nature 
 has cast her objects and which, charged with a refrac- 
 tory metal, has only furnished rude and defective 
 forms ; they empty it and pour their metal into it, a 
 more supple metal, and they heat their own furnace, 
 and the statue that issues from the clay in their hands 
 represents for the first time the veritable contours of a 
 mould which preceding castings, crusted Avith scoria 
 and traversed with fissures, could not express. 
 
 Let us now consider the moment of their appearance. 
 In all times and in every land that which inspires 
 works of art is a certain complex and mixed condition 
 of things encountered in the soul when placed between 
 two orders of sentiments : it is in train to abandon the 
 love of the grand for the love of the agreeable ; but in 
 passing fi'om one to the other it combines both. It is 
 necessary still to possess the taste for the grand, that is 
 to say, for noble forms and vigorous passions, without 
 which works of art would be only pretty. It is neces- 
 
ANCIENT HEROISM. 277 
 
 sary to have already possessed a taste for the agreeable, 
 that is to say, a craving for pleasure and interest in 
 decoration, without which the mind would concern 
 itself only with actions and never delight in works of 
 art. Hence the transient and precious flower is only 
 seen to bloom at the confluence of two epochs, be- 
 twixt heroic and epicurean habits, at the moment 
 when man, terminating some long and painful war, or 
 foundation, or discovery, begins to take repose and look 
 about him, meditating over the pleasure of- decorating 
 his great bare tenement whose foundations his own 
 hands have laid and whose walls they have erected. 
 Before this it would have been too soon ; absorbed with 
 labor he could not think of enjoyment ; a little time 
 after it would be too late, as, dreaming of enjoyment 
 only, he no longer conceives of an effort. Between the 
 two is found the unique moment, lasting longer or 
 shorter according as the transformation of the soul is 
 more or less prompt, and in which, men, still strong, 
 impetuous and capable of sublime emotion and of 
 bold enterprise, suffer the tension of their will to relax 
 in order to magnificently enliven the senses and the in- 
 tellect. 
 
 Such is the change effected in Venice, as in the rest 
 of Italy, between the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. 
 The Chiogga campaign is the last act of the old heroic 
 drama ; there, as in the best days of the ancient repub- 
 lics a besieged people is seen to save itself against all 
 hope, artisans equipping vessels, a Pisani conqueror 
 undergoing imprisonment and only released to renew 
 the victory, a Carlo Zeno^ surviving forty wounds, and 
 a doge of seventy years of age ; a Contarini, who makes 
 a vow not to leave his vessel so long as the enemy's 
 fleet is uncaptured, thirty families, apothecaries, grocers, 
 vintners, tanners admitted among the nobles, a bravery, 
 
 * He died in 1418. He lived tlie life of one of Plutarch's characters. 
 
378 VENETIAN ART. 
 
 a public spirit like that of Athens under Themistocles 
 and of Kome under Fabius Cunctator. If, from this 
 time forth, the inward fire abates we still feel its warmth 
 for many long years, longer kept up than in the rest of 
 Italy, and sometimes demonstrating its power by sud- 
 den outbursts. Venice is always an independent city, 
 a cherished soil when Florence, Rome and Bologna are 
 nothing more than museums for the idle and for ama- 
 teurs. A subjected people are still found to be citizens 
 on occasion ; on Louis XII. and Maximilian becoming 
 masters of the Venetian possessions on the mainland 
 the peasants rebel in the name of St. Mark and the 
 volunteers, in spite of the doge, retake Padua. On 
 Pope Paul V. attempting to impose his will on Venice 
 the Venetian clergy remain patriotic and the people 
 hoot away the papalistic monks." On the spreading of 
 the ecclesiastic inquisition over Italy the Venetian sen- 
 ate causes Paolo Sarpi to write against the Council of 
 Trent, tolerates on its soil protestants, Arminians, Ma- 
 hometans, Jews, and Greeks, leaves them in possession 
 of their temples and permits the interment of heretics 
 in the churches. The nobles, on their side, are always 
 ready to fight. During the whole of the sixteenth cen- 
 tury, even up to the seventeenth and beyond, we see 
 them in Dalmatia, in the Morea, over the entire Medi- 
 terranean, defending the soil inch by inch against the 
 infidels. The garrison of Famagouste yields only to 
 faminet and its governor, Bragadino, burnt ahve, is 
 a hero of ancient days. At the battle of Lepanto the 
 Venetians alone furnish one half of the christian fleet. 
 Thus on all sides, and notwithstanding their gradual 
 decline, peril, energy, love of country, all, in brief, 
 which constitutes or sustains the grand life of the soul 
 here subsists, whilst throughout the peninsula foreign 
 dominion, clerical oppression and voluptuous or aca- 
 
 * " Siamo Veneziaiii e poi cristiani." f 1571. 
 
DECLINE OF THE REPUBLIC. 279 
 
 demical inertia reduces man to the system of the 
 antechamber, the subtleties of dilettantism and the 
 babble of sonnets. 
 
 But if the human spring is not broken at Venice, it 
 is seen insensibly losing its elasticity. The govern- 
 ment, changed into a suspicious despotism, elects a 
 Mocenigo doge, a shameless speculator profiting on the 
 public distress, instead of that Charles Zeno who had 
 saved the country ; it holds Zeno prisoner two years 
 and intrusts the armies on the mainland to condottieri ; 
 it is tied up in the hands of three inquisitors, provokes 
 accusations, practices secret executions and commands 
 the people to confine themselves to the indulgences of 
 pleasure. On the other hand luxury arises. About 
 the year 1400 the houses "were quite small;" but a 
 thousand nobles were enumerated in Venice possessing 
 from four to seventy thousand ducats rental, while 
 three thousand ducats were sufficient to purchase a 
 palace. Henceforth this great wealth is no longer to 
 be employed in enterprises and in self-devotion, but 
 in pomp and magnificence. In 1495 Commines admires 
 *'the grand canal, the most beautiful street I think, in 
 the world, and with the best houses ; the houses are 
 very grand, high and of excellent stone, — and these 
 have been built within a century. All have fronts of 
 white marble, which comes from Istria a hundred miles 
 away, and yet many more great pieces of porphyry and 
 of serpentine on them : inside they have, most of them-, 
 at least two chambers with gilded ceilings, rich screens 
 of chimneys with carved marble, the bedsteads gilded 
 and the ostevents painted and gilded and well furnished 
 within." On his arrival twenty-five gentlemen attired 
 in silk and scarlet come to meet him ; they conduct him 
 to a boat decked with crimson silk ; " it is the most 
 triumphant city that I ever saw." Finally, whilst the 
 necessity of pleasure grows the spirit of enterprise 
 diminishes ; the passage of the Cape in the beginning 
 
»«" VENETIAN AKT. 
 
 of the sixteenth century places the commerce of Asia 
 in the hands of the Portuguese ; on the Mediterranean 
 and the Atlantic the financial measures of Charles Y. 
 joined to bad usage by the Turks, render abortive the 
 great maritime caravans which the state dispatches 
 yearly between Alexandria and Bruges. In respect to 
 industrial matters, the hampered artisans, watched and 
 cloistered in their country, cease to perfect their arts 
 and allow foreign competitors to surpass them in pro- 
 cesses and in furnishing supplies to the world. Thus, 
 on all sides, the capacity for activity becomes lessened 
 and the desire for enjoyment greater without one 
 entirely effacing the other, but in such a way that, both 
 commingling, they produce that ambiguous state of 
 mind similar to a mixed temperature which is neither 
 too mild nor too severe and in which the arts are 
 generated. Indeed, it is from 1454 to 1572, between 
 the institution of state inquisitors and the battle of 
 Lepanto, between the accomplishment of internal des- 
 potism and the last of the great outward victories, that 
 the brilliant productions of Venetian art appear. 
 John Bellini was born in 1426, Giorgone died in 1511, 
 Titian in 1576, Veronese in 1572 and Tintoretto in 
 1594. In this interval of one hundred and fifty years 
 this warrior city, this mistress of the Mediterranean, 
 this queen of commerce and of industry became a 
 casino for masqueraders and a den of courtezans. 
 
CHAPTEE II. 
 
 THE EARLY PAINTERS.— JOHN BELLINI.— CARPACCIO.-^TINETIAN SO- 
 CIETY IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.— UNRESTRAINED VOLUPTU- 
 OUSNESS.— DOMESTIC ESTABLISHMENT OP ARETINO.— SENTBIENT 
 OF ART.— COLOR INSTINCTS. 
 
 The Academy of the Fine Arts contains a collection 
 of the works of the earliest painters. A large picture 
 in compartments, of 1380, quite barbarous, shows the 
 first steps taken : here, as elsewhere, the new art issued 
 from Byzantine traditions. It appears late, much 
 later than in precocious and intelligent Tuscany. We 
 encounter, indeed, in the fourteenth century, a Semit- 
 ecolo, a Guariento, weak disciples of the school which 
 Giotto founded at Padua ; but, in order to find, the first 
 national painters, we must come down to the middle of 
 the following century. At this time there lived at 
 Murano a family of artists called the Yivarini. With 
 the oldest of these, Antonio, we already detect the 
 rudiments of Venetian taste, some venerable beards 
 and bald heads, fine draperies with rosy and green 
 tones, little angels almost plump and Madonnas with 
 full cheeks. After him his brother Bartolomeo, edu- 
 cated undoubtedly in the Paduan school, inclines paint- 
 ing for a time to dry and bony forms.^^ With him, how- 
 ever, as with all the rest, a feeling for rich colors is 
 already perceptible. On leaving this antechamber of 
 art the eyes keep a full and strong sensation which 
 other vestibules of art, at Sienna and at Florence, do 
 not give, and, on continuing, we find the same sensa- 
 tion, still richer, before the masters of this half-legible 
 era, John Bellini and Carpaccio. 
 
 * A Virgin of 1473, at Santa Maria Formosa. 
 
282 
 
 VENETIAN AET. 
 
 I have just examined at the Frari a picture by John 
 Bellini which, like those of Perugino, seems to me a 
 masterpiece of genuine religious art. At the rear of a 
 chapel, over the altar, within a small piece of golden 
 architecture, sits the Yirgin on a throne in a grand 
 blue mantle. She is good and simple Hke a simple, in- 
 nocent peasant girl. At her feet two little angels in 
 short vests seem to be choir-boys and their plump 
 infantile thighs are of the finest and healthiest flesh- 
 color. On the two sides, in the compartments, are two 
 couples of saints, impassible figures in the garbs of 
 monk and bishop, erect for eternity in hieratic attitude, 
 actual forms reminding one of the sunburnt fisher- 
 men of the Adriatic. These personages have all lived ; 
 the believer kneeling before them recognized features 
 encountered by him in his boat and on the canals, the 
 ruddy brown tones of visages tanned by the sea-breezes, 
 the broad and pure carnation of young girls reared in 
 a moist atmosphere, the damask cope of the prelate 
 heading the processions, and the little naked legs of 
 the children fishing for crabs at sunset. He could not 
 avoid having faith in them ; truth so local and perfect 
 paved the way to illusion. But the apparition was one 
 of a superior and august world. These personages do 
 not move ; their faces are in repose and their eyes fixed 
 like those of figures seen in a dream. A painted niche, 
 decked with red and gold, recedes back of the Virgin 
 like the extension of an imaginary realm ; painted 
 architecture in this way imitates and completes actual 
 architecture, while the golden Host on the marble, 
 crowned with rays and a glory, displays the entrance 
 into the supernatural world disclosing itself behind her. 
 
 On regarding other pictures by John Bellini, and 
 those of his contemporaries in the Academy, it is evi- 
 dent that painting in Yenice, while following a path of 
 its own, ran the same course as in the rest of Italy. 
 It issues here, as elsewhere, from missals and mosaics, 
 
CARPACCIO. 283 
 
 and corresponds at first wholly to cliristian emotions ; 
 then, by degrees, the sentiment of a beautiful corporeal 
 life introduces into the altar-frames vigorous and healthy 
 bodies borrowed from surrounding nature, and we won- 
 der at seeing placid expressions and religious physiogno- 
 mies on flourishing forms circulating with youthful blood 
 and sustained by an intact temperament. It is the con- 
 fluence of two ages and of two spirits, one christian 
 and subsiding and the other pagan and about to become 
 ascendant. At Venice , however, over these general 
 resemblances special traits are delineated. The per- 
 sonages are more closely copied from life, less trans- 
 formed by the classic or mystic sentiment, less pure 
 than at Perugia, less noble than at Florence ; they 
 appeal less to the intellect or to the heart and more to 
 the senses. They are more quickly recognized as men, 
 and give greater pleasure to the eye. Powerful, lively 
 tones color their muscles and faces ; living flesh is 
 already soft on the shoulders, and on children's thighs ; 
 open landscapes recede in order to enforce the dark 
 tints of the figures ; the saints gather around the Vir- 
 gin in various attitudes unknown to the monotonous 
 perceptions of other primitive schools. At the height 
 of its fervor and faith the national spirit, fond of diversity 
 and the agreeable allows a smile to glimmer. Nothing 
 is more striking in this respect than the eight figures 
 by Carpaccio relating to St. Ursula. * Everything is 
 here ; and first the awkwardness of the feudal image- 
 fabricator. He ignores one half of the landscape, and 
 likewise the nude : his rocks bristling with trees, seem to 
 issue from a psalter; frequently his trees are as if cut 
 out of polished sheet-iron ; his ten thousand crucified 
 martj^rs on a mountain are grotesque like the figures of 
 an ancient mystery ; he did not, evidently, live in Flor- 
 ence, nor study natural objects with Paolo Uccello, nor 
 
 * Pictiu-es of from 1490 to 1515. 
 
284 
 
 VENETIAN AET. 
 
 human members and muscles with Pollaiolo. On the 
 other hand we find in him the chastest of mediaeval 
 figures, and that extreme finish, that perfect truthful- 
 ness, that bloom of the christian conscience which the 
 following age, more rude and sensual, is to trample on 
 in its vehemences. The saint and her affianced, under 
 their great drooping blonde tresses, are grave and 
 tender, like the characters of a legend. We see her, 
 at one time asleep and receiving from the angel the 
 announcement of her martyrdom, now kneeling with 
 her spouse under the benediction of the pope, now 
 translated in glory above a field of crowded heads. 
 In another picture she appears with St. Anne and two 
 aged saints embracing each other ; one cannot imagine 
 figures more pious and more serene; she, pale and 
 gentle, her head slightly bent, holds a banner in her 
 beautiful hands and a green palm-branch; her silky 
 hair flows down over the virginal blue of h^r long robe 
 and a royal mantle envelops her form with its golden 
 confusion ; she is indeed a saint, the candor, humility 
 and delicacy of the middle ages entirely permeating 
 her attitude and expression. Such is the age, and such 
 the country ! These paintings provide scenes of social 
 significance and rich decorations. The artist, as at a 
 later period his great successors, displays architecture, 
 fabrics, arcades, tapestried halls, vessels, processions 
 of characters, grand bedizened and lustrous robes, all 
 in petty proportions but ui brilliancy and in diversity 
 anticipating future productions as an illuminated man- 
 uscript anticipates a picture. And in order fully to 
 show the transformation under way he himself once 
 attains to perfect art ; we see him emerging from his 
 primitive dryness in order to enter on the new and de- 
 finitive style. In the middle of the grand hall is a " Pre- 
 sentation of the boy Jesus" which one would not be- 
 lieve to be by him, were it not signed by his hand (1510). 
 Under a marble portico incrusted with mosaics of gold 
 
PATKICIAN SENTIMENT. 285 
 
 appear personages almost of the size of life, in admirable 
 relief, exquisitely finished, and perfect in composition 
 and amidst the most beautiful gradations of light and 
 shadow ; the Virgin, followed bj two young females, 
 leads her child to the aged Simeon ; beneath, three 
 angels play on the viol and the lute. Save a little 
 rigidity in the heads of the men, and in some of the 
 folds of the drapery, the archaic manner has disap- 
 peared ; nothing remains of it but the infinite charm 
 of moral refinement and benignity, while, for the first 
 time, the semi-nude bodies of little children show 
 the beauty of flesh traversed and impregnated with 
 light. With this picture we cross the threshold of 
 high art, and, around Carpaccio, his young contem- 
 poraries, Giorgone and Titian, have already surpassed 
 him. 
 
 The Masters. — When, in order to comprehend the 
 milieu in which an art has flourished, we strive, accord- 
 ing to the documents at hand, to form some idea of the 
 life of a patrician at Yenice during the first half of the 
 sixteenth century, we encounter in him first, and in the 
 foremost rank, a spirit of haughty security and gran- 
 deur. He regards himself as the successor of the 
 ancient Romans, and holds that, except in conquests, 
 he has surpassed, and does still surpass them."^ 
 " Among all the provinces of the noble Roman empire 
 Italy is queen," and in the Italy overcome by the 
 Caesars, and devastated by the barbarians, Yenice is 
 the sole city that remained free. Abroad she has just 
 recovered the provinces on the mainland wrested from 
 her by Louis XII. Her lagunes and her alliances pro- 
 tect her against the emperor. The Turk fails in his 
 encroachments on her domain, and Candia, Cyprus, the 
 Cyclades, Corfu and the coasts of the Adriatic held by 
 her garrisons, extend her sovereignty to the extremities 
 
 * Douati Gianotti, La Repuhlica di Venezia (clialo<]jues). 
 
^^^ VENETIAN ABT. 
 
 of the sea. Witliin, " she has neyer been more perfect." 
 In no state in the world do we see " better laws, better 
 preservation of order, more complete concord," and in 
 this admirable system, which is unique in the uni- 
 verse, "she does not lack valorous and magnanimous 
 souls." With the dignified coolness of a grand seignor, 
 Marco Trifone Gabriello regards the prosperity of the 
 glorious city as due to its aristocratic government, and 
 " the suppression of the council developed it up to a 
 point of grandeur not previously reached." According 
 to him all citizens excluded from suffrage are only 
 inferior people, boatmen, subjects and domestics. If, 
 in the course of events, any of these become wealthy 
 and prominent it is due to the tolerance of the state 
 which gathers them under its wing; still, in this day 
 they are protected, they have no rights; clients and 
 plebeians they rejoice in the patronage awarded to 
 them. The sole legitimate rulers are "three thousand 
 gentlemen, seigneurs of the city and of the entire state 
 on land and on sea." The state belongs to them ; " as 
 formerly with the Roman patricians they hold public 
 affairs in fee, and the wisdom of their rule confirms the 
 stability of their right." Thereupon the " magnifico" 
 describes with patriotic complacency the economy of 
 the constitution and the resources of the city, the order 
 of the functions and the election of magistrates, the 
 fifteen hundred thousand crowns of public revenue, the 
 new fortifications on land and the armament in the 
 arsenals. In gravity, proud spiritedness and nobleness 
 of discourse one might take him for a citizen of anti- 
 quity. In fact his friends compare him to Atticus ; he, 
 however, courteously declines the title, declaring that 
 if, like Atticus, he has withdrawn from public affairs it 
 is for a different motive and wholly creditable to his 
 city, since the retirement of Atticus was excused by 
 the powerlessness of worthy citizens, and the decline 
 of Eome, whereas his own is authorized by the su- 
 
ABETINO. 
 
 387 
 
 perabundance of capable men and the prosperity of 
 Yenice. Thus does the dialogue proceed in terms of 
 noble courteousness, in fine periods and with sub- 
 stantial arguments ; the apartment of Bembo at 
 Padua is the theatre for this, and the reader may im- 
 agine these lofty Eenaissance halls, decorated with 
 busts, manuscripts and vases, in which the grandeurs 
 of paganism and of antique patriotism reappeared 
 with the eloquence, the purity and the urbanity of 
 Cicero. 
 
 How do our " magnifici" amuse themselves ? Some 
 of them are serious I can readily believe, but the pre- 
 vailing sentiment at Yenice is not a rigid one. At 
 this time the most prominent personage is Aretino, 
 tlie son of a courtezan, born in a hospital, parasite by 
 profession, and a professor of black-mail, who, by 
 means of calumnies and sycophancies, of luxurious 
 sonnets and obscene dialogues, becomes the arbiter of 
 reputations, extorts seventy thousand crowns from 
 European magnates, calls himself "the scourge of 
 princes" and succeeds in passing off his inflated effemi- 
 nate style as one of the marvels of the human intellect. 
 He has no property and lives like a seignor on the 
 money bestowed, or on the presents showered, on him. 
 At early morning, in his palace on the Grand Canal, 
 solicitors and flatterers fill his antechamber. " So 
 many seignors,""^ he says, "importune me with their 
 visits that my stairs are worn with the friction of their 
 feet like the Capitol pavement with the wheels of 
 triumphant chariots. I doubt if Kome ever saw so 
 great a medley of nations and languages as that which 
 is visible under my roof. Turks, Jews, Indians, 
 Frenchmen, Spaniards and Germans, all resort to it. 
 As to the Italians imagine how many there must be ! 
 I say nothing of the vulgar ; it is impossible to find me 
 
 * Lettre, Vol. I. p. 206. He came to Venice iu 1527. 
 
5500 VENETIAN ART. 
 
 free of monks and priests .... I am secretary for 
 everybody." Nobles, prelates and artists pay court to 
 him ; tliey fetch him antique medals, gold collars, 
 velvet mantles, pictures, purses of five hundred crowns 
 and the diplomas of Academies. His bust of white 
 marble, his portrait by Titian, the medals of bronze, 
 silver and gold that represent him display to the gaze 
 of his visitors his brutal and impudent mask. We see 
 him on these crowned, clad in long imperial robes, sit- 
 ting on an elevated throne and receiving the homage 
 and gifts of the surrounding people. He is popular 
 and sets the fashion. " I see," he says, " my effigy on 
 the facades of palaces ; I encounter it again on comb- 
 boxes, on mirror ornaments, on majolica ware like that 
 of Alexander, Caesar or Scipio. Moreover I assure 
 you that at Murano there is a certain kind of crystal 
 vase called an Aretino. A breed of horses is called 
 Aretino, in commemoration of one I received from 
 Pope Clement and which I gave to Duke Frederick. 
 The stream bathing one side of the house which I 
 occupy on the Grand Canal is baptized with the name 
 of Aretino. People refer to the style of Aretino, — how 
 the pedants burst with vexation ! Three of my cham- 
 bermaids or housekeepers, having left my service to 
 set up for ladies, call themselves Aretines." Thus 
 protected and fed by public favor he enjoys himself, 
 not furtively and delicately, but openly and ostenta- 
 tiously. " Let us eat, drink and be merry, and .... like 
 liberal men!" I am a hberal man, says he often, 
 which signifies that he does what he pleases and pam- 
 pers all his senses. At this epoch the nerves are still 
 rude and the muscles vigorous ; only toward the end 
 of the seventeenth century does society incline to insi- 
 pidity and roguery. At this time all desires are 
 gluttonous rather than dainty ; in the Yenuses which 
 the great masters undrape on their canvases the torso 
 
AEETINO. 289 
 
 is masculine and the eye audacious ; voluptuousness, 
 rank and open, leaves no place for polisli or for senti- 
 mentality. Aretino liad been a vagabond and soldier, 
 and his pleasures smacked of the life he had led. 
 There was great carousing under his roof ; he had 
 "twenty-two women in his house, and frequently with 
 infants at the breast." Bevelling and disorder were 
 constant. He has the generosity of a robber, and if he 
 takes he lets others take. " Double my pension of five 
 hundred crowns — even if I had a thousand times as 
 much — I would always be straitened. Everybody 
 comes to me, as if I w^ere custodian of the royal 
 treasury. Let a poor girl be confined and my house 
 pays the expenses. Let any one be put in prison and 
 the cost falls on me. Soldiers without an equipment, 
 unfortunate strangers, and quantities of stray cavaliers 
 come to my house to refit. It is not two months since 
 a young man wounded near my residence, w^as brought 
 into one of mj apartments." He is plundered by his 
 domestics. All is confusion in this free tenement ; 
 vases, busts, sketches, caps and mantles presented to 
 him, Cyprus wine, birds, hares and rabbits sent to him, 
 melons and grapes that he himself buys for the even- 
 ing entertainment. He eats well, drinks better and 
 makes his marble halls ring with his jovial sallies. 
 Partridges arrive ; " roasted, as soon as caught, I 
 stopped my hymn in honor of hares and began at once 
 to sing the praises of the winged ! My good fiiend 
 Titian, bestowing a glance on these savory morsels, be- 
 gan to sing in duet w^ith me the 3Iagnificat I had al- 
 ready commenced." To this music of the jaws is added 
 another. Tlie famous songstress Franceschina is one of 
 his guests ; he kisses " her beautiful hands, two charm- 
 ing robbers which take not alone people's purses but 
 their hearts." " It is my wish," says he, " that where 
 my dishes prove unsavory there may the sweetness of 
 
 13 
 
290 YENETIAN AET. 
 
 yonr voice appear." Courtezans are at home in his dom- 
 icile. He has written books^ for their use and taught 
 them the accomplishments of their profession. He 
 receives them, pets them, writes to them and recruits 
 them. In the morning, after having got rid of his vis- 
 itors, when he does not go to amuse himself in the 
 studios of Titian and Sansovino, he visits grisettes, 
 gives them "a few sous" and has them sew "handker- 
 chiefs, sheets and shirts in order that they may earn 
 their living." Thus occupied he collects and installs 
 under his roof six young women who are called 
 Aretines, a seraglio without walls where pranks, quar- 
 rels and imbroglios make the most remarkable uproar. 
 He lives in this way thirty years, sometimes horse- 
 whipped but always pensioned, familiar with the 
 highest, receiving from a bishop blue morocco shoes for 
 one of his mistresses, and a companion of Titian, of 
 Tintoretto and of Sansovino. And better still, Aretino 
 founds a school ; he has imitators as parasitical and as 
 obscene as himself, Doni, Dolce, Mcolo Francp his 
 secretary and enemy, the author of the Priapea and 
 who ended his career at Kome on the gibbet. Thus 
 flourished at Yenice a literature of buffoonery and of 
 lewdness which, tempered by the gallantries of Para- 
 bosco, repels a superior one with the sonnets of Baffo. 
 Judge of readers by the book and of guests by the 
 mansion. With this glimpse we partially recognize the 
 inner character of men of whom the painters have 
 transmitted to us the outward image ; here it is that 
 we obtain the principal traits explanatory of contem- 
 porary art, the haughty grandeur suitable to the undis- 
 puted masters of such a republic, the brutal and teem- 
 ing energy surviving the ages of virile activity, the 
 magnificent and impudent sensuality which, devel- 
 oped by accumulated wealth and by unquestioned 
 
 * Kagionamenti. — Letters to Zufolina and Zafetta. 
 
ARETINO. 291 
 
 security, expands and revels in the full brightness of 
 sunshine. 
 
 One point remains, the sentiment itself for art. We 
 find it everywhere in Venice in those days, in private 
 houses, among bodies of great public functionaries, 
 among the patricians, among people of the ordinary 
 class, even in those coarse and practical natures who, 
 like Aretino, seem to be born to live jollily and to spec- 
 ulate on their associates. Whatever remains of inward 
 nobleness blooms in that direction. Their libertinage 
 and their assurance sympathize without effort with 
 the embellished image of license and force. They find 
 in muscular giants, in stout naked beauties, in the archi- 
 tectural and luxurious pomp of painting an aliment 
 suited to their energetic and unbridled instincts. Moral 
 baseness does not exclude sensuous refinements ; on the 
 contrary it throws the field open, and the man whose 
 propensities are wholly on one side is only therefore the 
 better qualified to appreciate the nicest shades of pleas- 
 ure. Aretino bows reverentially to Michael Angelo ; all 
 he asks of him is one of his sketches " in order to 
 enjoy it during life and to bear it with him to his 
 tomb." With Titian he is a true friend, natural and 
 simple ; his admiration and his taste are sincere. He 
 speaks of color with a precision and vivacity of im- 
 pression worthy of Titian himself. " Signor," he 
 addresses him, "my dear companion, I have to-day, 
 against my usual practice, dined alone, or rather in 
 company with the annoyances of that quatran fever 
 w^hich leaves me no relish for the savor of any dish. 
 I arose from table wearied with the depressing ennui 
 with which I sat down, and then leaning my arm on 
 the window-sill, and resting my breast and almost all 
 my person thereon, I fell into contemplation of the 
 admirable spectacle of the innumerable barks which, 
 filled with strangers and Venetians, delighted not alone 
 those in them but again the Grand Canal All 
 
293 
 
 VENETLVN AKT. 
 
 at once two gondolas appear and, manned by some 
 famous oarsmen, contend for speed, and furnisli the 
 public with pastime. I also took great pleasure in 
 contemplating the multitude which, in order to witness 
 this amusement, had stopped on the Eialto bridge, on 
 the Camerlinghes bank, at the Pescarita, on the traghetto 
 of St. Sophia and on that of Casa di Mosto. And 
 whilst on both sides the crowd dispersed, each his own 
 way with hilarious applause, I, as one irksome to him- 
 self, who knows not what to do with his mind or with 
 his thoughts, turn my eyes up to the firmament. Never, 
 since God created it, was the sky so adorned with the 
 exquisite painting of Hghts and shades ! The atmo- 
 sphere was such as those who envy Titian would like to 
 produce, because they are not able to be a Titian. . . . 
 at first the buildings which, of genuine stone, seem 
 nevertheless a material transfigured by artifice, then 
 daylight, in certain spots pure and lively and in others 
 disturbed and deadened. Consider yet again another 
 marvel, dense and humid clouds which, on the principal 
 plane, descend to the roofs of the edifices, and on a 
 remoter one sink behind them even to the middle of 
 their mass. The entire right consisted of a subdued 
 color suspended under a dark gray-brown. I gazed in 
 admiration on the varied tints which these clouds 
 presented to the eye, the nearest brilliant with flames 
 from the solar realm, the remotest with a ruddy and 
 less ardent vermilion. Oh, the fine strokes of the 
 pencil which from this side colored the air and made it 
 recede behind the palaces as Titian practises it in his 
 landscapes ! In certain parts appeared a blue-green, in 
 others an azure rendered green and truly commingled 
 by the capricious invention of nature, the mistress of 
 all masters. It is she who with clear or obscure tints 
 retires or models forms according to her own conception. 
 And I myseK who know how your pencil is the soul 
 of your soul, exclaimed three or four times : * Titian, 
 
ARETINO. 293 
 
 where art fhou ?' " One here recognizes the backgrounds 
 of the pictures of the Venetian artists ; behold the grand 
 white clouds of Veronese sleepiog suspended beneath the 
 colonnades, the blue distances, the atmosphere palpitat- 
 ing with vague gleams, the ruddy, warm, brown shadows 
 of Titian. 
 
CHAPTEE ni. 
 
 THE DUCAL PALACE.— CHAHACTEES OF THE DAT.— THE ALLEGOEICAL 
 PAINTINGS OP VERONESE AND TINTOEETTO.— THE RAPE OF 
 EUROPA. 
 
 Thebe are families of plants witli species so near akin 
 that the resemblances are greater than the differences : 
 such are the Venetian painters, and not only the four 
 most celebrated, Giorgone, Titian, Tintoretto and Yer- 
 onese, but others less illustrious, Palma-Yecchio, Boni- 
 fazio, Paris Bordone, Pordenone, and that crowd 
 enumerated by Eidolfi in his "Lives," contemporaries, 
 relatives and successors of the great men, Andrea Yi- 
 centino, Palma the younger, Zelotti, Bazzaco, Padovi- 
 nano, Bassano, Schiavone, Moretti, and so many others. 
 "What the eye clearly detects is the common and general 
 type; special and personal traits remain, at the first 
 glance, in the background. All have labored together 
 and in turn at the Ducal Palace ; but, through the in- 
 voluntary unity of their talents, their paintings form a 
 complete whole. 
 
 At the first glance the eyes are disappointed ; except- 
 ing three or four halls the apartments are low and of 
 small dimensions. The chamber of the Council of Ten 
 and those around it are gilded cabinets inadequate for 
 the figures which occupy them ; but after a few mo- 
 ments the cabinet is forgotten and nothing is seen but 
 the figures. Power and voluptuousness display them- 
 selves superbly and unrestrainedly. Naked men and 
 painted caryatides in the angles project in such relief 
 that at first sight one takes them for statues ; a colossal 
 breath inflates their breasts ; their thighs and shoulders 
 are writhing. On the ceihng a Mercury seen on the 
 
THE IDEAL. 395 
 
 belly, entirely nude, is almost a Eubens figure but 
 with a more marked sensuality. A gigantic Neptune 
 urges on his marine steeds who are dashing off on the 
 waves ; his foot rests on the edge of the chariot, and 
 his enormous ruddy torso throws itself back ; he raises 
 his conch with the glee of a bestial divinity ; the salt 
 air whistles through his scarf, hair and beard ; one 
 cannot imagine, without seeing it, such furious inspira- 
 tion, such overflowing animal vigor, such joyous pagan 
 carnality, such a triumph of grand, free, licentious 
 being revelling in air and in sunshine. What an injus- 
 tice, that of reducing the Venetians to the depicting of 
 happy repose and to the art of flattering the eye ! 
 They, too, have painted grandeur and heroism ; the 
 energetic and acting body has of itself affected them ; 
 like the Flemings they have their own colossi. Their 
 drawing, even without color, is of itself capable of ex- 
 pressing the full solidity and vitality of the human 
 structure. Take, for example, in this very hall, the 
 four grisailles by Veronese, five or six veiled or half- 
 naked women, all so vigorous and of such a frame that 
 their thighs and arms might embrace and crush a com- 
 batant, and yet of a physiognomy so simple or so 
 spirited that in spite of their gaiety they are virgin like 
 the Venuses and the Psyches of Eaphael. 
 
 The more the ideal figures of Venetian art are con- 
 sidered the more do we feel behind us the breath of an 
 heroic age. The grand draped old men with bald 
 brows are patrician kings of the Archipelago, barbaric 
 sultans who, trailing their silken simarres, receive 
 tribute and order executions. Superb women in long 
 variegated and disordered robes are the imperial 
 daughters of the republic, like that Catherine Cornaro 
 of whom Venice received Cyprus. There are combat- 
 ants' muscles within the bronzed breasts of sailors and 
 captains ; their bodies, tanned by sun and wind, have 
 been contending with the athletic forms of janissaries * 
 
^yo VENETIAN ART. 
 
 their turbans, pelisses and furs, and their sword-liafts 
 gleaming with jewels, the whole of Asiatic magnifi- 
 cence mingles on their persons with flowing antique 
 drapery and with the nudities of pagan tradition. 
 Their straightforward look is yet tranquil and savage, 
 and the spirit and tragic grandeur of their expression 
 tells of the proximity to a life in which man, concen- 
 trated in a few simple passions, thought of being mas- 
 ter only because he would not be a slave, and of slaying 
 only because he would not be slain. Such is the spirit of 
 a painting by Veronese which, in the hall of the Council 
 of Ten, represents an old ^varrior and a young woman ; 
 it is an allegory — but the subject is of little conse- 
 quence. The man is seated and bending forward with 
 a grim air, his chin resting on his hand ; his colossal 
 shoulders and arm, and his naked leg, bound with a 
 lion-headed cnemide, issue from his massive and disor- 
 dered drapery; with his turban and white beard, a 
 meditative brow, and the features of a wearied Hon 
 he looks like a pasha suffering with ennui. She, with 
 downcast eyes, rests her hands on her soft breast ; her 
 superb tresses are looped up with pearls ; she seems to 
 be some captive awaiting her master's will ; and her 
 neck and inclining face become of a deeper glow in 
 the shadow that bathes them. 
 
 Almost all the other halls are empty ; the paintings 
 have been removed to an inner apartment. We go in 
 quest of the keeper of the gallery, and tell him in bad 
 Italian that we are without letters of introduction and 
 have no claim or right whatever to be admitted to see 
 them, whereupon he condescends to lead us to the 
 closed apartment, to lift the curtains one after the other 
 and to lose a couple of hours in showing them to us. 
 
 I have enjoyed nothing more keenly in Italy ; the 
 canvases are lower than our eyes ; we can look at them 
 as closely as we please, at ease, and we are alone. 
 Here are bronzed giants by Tintoretto, the skin folded 
 
IDEALS. 297 
 
 by the play of muscles ; Saint Andrew and Saint Mark, 
 veritable colossi like those of Eubens. There is a 
 Saint Christopher by Titian, a sort of bronzed and 
 stooping Atlas, his four limbs in action to sustain the 
 burden of a world, and on his neck, in extraordinary con- 
 trast, a little soft smiling urchin whose infantile flesh 
 has the delicacy and the grace of a flower. Above all, a 
 dozen of mythological paintings and allegories by Tin- 
 toretto and Veronese of such brilliancy, of such en- 
 trancing seductiveness that a veil falls from the eyes, 
 revealing an unknown world, a paradise of delights ex- 
 tending far be^^ond all that one could dream or imagine. 
 Wlien the Old Man of the Mountain transported his 
 youths asleep into his harem in order to qualify them 
 for extreme devotedness to him such, mthout doubt, 
 was the spectacle he prepared for them. 
 
 On a strand, on the margin of the infinite sea, 
 Ariadne in serious mood receives the ring from Bac- 
 chus, while Yenus, with a golden crown, approaches in 
 the air to honor their nuptials. She is the sublime 
 beauty of nude flesh, as she appears on rising from the 
 waves vivified by the sun and graduated by shadows. 
 The goddess swims in liquid light, and her curved 
 back, her thigh and her full forms palpitate haK-envel- 
 oped in a white diaphanous veil. Where is the language 
 with which to paint the beauty of an attitude, of a tone, 
 of a contour ? What will portray healthy and rosy 
 flesh under the amber transparency of gauze ? How 
 represent the mellow fulness of a living form and the 
 undulating limbs losing themselves in a flexible body ? 
 She really swims in light as a fish swims in its lake 
 and the atmosphere filled with vague reflections em- 
 braces and caresses her. 
 
 Alongside of this are two young women, "Peace" 
 and " Plenty." Peace, with a tremulous delicacy, in- 
 chnes toward her sister ; she has turned away and her 
 head is seen only in shadow, but she possesses the 
 
^^^ VENETIAN ART. 
 
 freshness of immortal youth. How luminous their 
 gathered tresses, blonde as the ripened wheat ! Their 
 legs and bodies are slightly deflected ; one seems to be 
 falling, and this moving curvature as it commences is 
 wonderful. No painter has to the same degree appre- 
 ciated full, yielding forms or so vividly arrested the 
 flight of action. They are about to take a posture or 
 to walk ; the eye and the mind involuntarily expand the 
 situation ; we see in their present a future and a past ; 
 the artist has fixed a fleeting moment but one big with 
 its environment. Nobody, save Kubens, has thus ex- 
 pressed the incessant flow and fluidity of life. Pallas, 
 meanwhile, repels Mars, and her manly cuirass with 
 dark reflections brings out with irresistible coquetry 
 the exquisite whiteness of the shoulder and knee. 
 
 More animated and more voluptuous still is the 
 coquetry of the group of Mercury and the Three 
 Graces. All three are deflected ; with Tintoretto a 
 body is not a living one when its posture is passive ; 
 the display of a deflected figure adds a mobile grace to 
 the universal attractiveness emanating fi'om the rest of 
 its beauty. One of them, seated, extends her arms, 
 and the light that falls on her flank makes portions of 
 her face, neck and bosom glow against the vague pur- 
 ple of the shadow. Her sister, kneeling, with downcast 
 eyes, takes her hand ; a long gauze, fine like those sil- 
 very webs of the fields brightened by the morning 
 dawn, clings around the waist and expands over the 
 bosom whose blush it allows to appear. In the other 
 hand she holds a blooming bunch of flowers, ascending 
 upward and resting their snowy purity on the ruddy 
 whiteness of the ample arms. The third, tortuous, dis- 
 plays herself in full, and from neck to heel, the eye 
 follows the embracing of the muscles covering the 
 superb framework of the spine and hips. Waving 
 tresses, small chin, rounded eyelids, nose slightly 
 turned up, dainty ears coiled like a mother-of-pearl 
 
IDEALS. 299 
 
 shell, the entire countenance expresses a jojous arch- 
 ness and malice similar to that of a hardy courtezan. 
 
 This is the trait recognizable in Tintoretto, ruder and 
 more decisive, also his more powerful color, more im- 
 petuous action and more virile nudities. Veronese has 
 tones more silvery and more rosy, gentler figures, less 
 darkness of shadow and a richer and calmer decoration. 
 Near a half column an ample and noble woman, Industry, 
 seated before Innocence, weaves an aerial tissue ; her 
 beaming eyes look up to the blue of the sky ; her 
 waving blonde tresses are full of light, her half-open 
 mouth seems like a pomegranate ; a vague smile allows 
 her pearly teeth to appear and the transparency in 
 which she is steeped has the rosy tinge of a brilliant 
 aurora. The other, alongside of a lamb, bends over 
 with perfect abandonment ; the silvery reflections of 
 her silk drapery glow around her ; her head is in shade 
 and an auroral flush lightly falls on her lips, ear and 
 cheek. 
 
 Figures like these are not to be described. We can- 
 not imagine beforehand what poesy there is in a vest- 
 ment or in rich attire. In another picture by Veronese, 
 " Venice Queen," she sits on a throne between Peace 
 and Justice ; her Avhite silk robe embroidered with 
 golden lilies undulates over a mantle of ermine and 
 scarlet ; her arm, delicate hand and bending dimpled 
 fingers rest their satiny purity and soft serpentine 
 contours on the lustrous material. The face is in shadow 
 — a half-shadow roseate with a cool, palpable atmo- 
 sphere enlivening still more the carmine of the lips ; 
 the Hps are cherries while all the shadow is intensified 
 by the lights on the hair, the soft gleams of pearls on 
 the neck and in the ears and the scintillations of the 
 diadem whose jewels seem to be magical eyes. She 
 smiles with an air of royal and beaming benignity like 
 a flower happy in its expanded and blooming petals. 
 Near her, Peace, inclining abandons herself, almost 
 
300 VENETIAN AET. 
 
 falling ; her robe of yellow silk studded with red flowers 
 gathers into folds under the richest of violet mantles ; 
 strings of pearls wind around under her white veil 
 among her pale tresses, and how divine the small ear! 
 There is another picture still more celebrated, " The 
 Bape of Europa." For brilliancy, fancifulness, extra- 
 ordinary refinement and invention in color it has no 
 equal. The reflection of the foliage overhead bathes 
 the entire picture with an aqueous green tone ; the 
 white drapery of Europa is tinged with it ; she, arch, 
 subtle and languishing, seems almost like an eighteenth 
 century figure. This is one of those works in which, 
 through subtlety and combination of tones, a painter 
 surpasses himself, forgets his public, loses himself in 
 the unexplored regions of his art, and, discarding all 
 known rules, finds, outside of the common world of 
 sensible appearances, harmonies, contrasts and peculiar 
 successes beyond all verisimilitude and all proportion. 
 Eembrandt has produced a similar work in his " Night 
 watch." One has to look at it and keep silent. 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 TITIAN, HIS LIFE AND CHAEACTER.— HIS WORKS IN THE ACADEIMY.— 
 "THE ASSIBIPTION OF THE VIRGIN," AND OTHERS.— SANTA MARLA 
 BELLA SALUTE.— "THE SACRIFICE OF ABRAHAM."— " CAIN AND 
 ABEL."— THE WORKS OF BONIFAZIO, PALMA-VECCHIO AND VERO- 
 NESE. 
 
 The "Lives" of Ridolfi are very dry, and all that 
 Yasari adds to tliem is of little import. In attempting 
 to picture Titian to ourselves we imagine a happy man, 
 " the most fortunate and most healthy of his species, 
 heaven having awarded to him nothing but favors and 
 felicities," first among his rivals, visited at his house by 
 the kings of France and of Poland, favorite of the 
 Emperor, of Philip II. of the doges, of Pope Paul III, 
 of all the Italian princes; created a Knight and 
 count of the empire, overwhelmed with commissions, 
 liberally compensated, pensioned and worthily enjoy- 
 ing his good fortune. He lives in great state, dresses 
 splendidly and has at his table cardinals, seignors, the 
 greatest artists and the ablest writers of the day. " Al- 
 though not very learned" he is in his place in this 
 high society ; for he has " natural intelligence, while 
 familiarity with courts has taught him every proper 
 term of the Knight and of the man of the world," 
 so well that we find him "very courteous, endowed 
 with rare politeness, and with the sweetest ways and 
 manners." There is nothing strained or repulsive in 
 his character. His letters to princes and to ministers 
 concerning his pictures and his pensions contain that 
 degree of humility which then denoted the savoir- 
 vivre of a subject. He takes men well and he takes 
 life well, that is to say he enjoys life Hke other men 
 
302 
 
 VENETIAN AET. 
 
 without either excess or baseness. He is no rigorist ; 
 his correspondence with Aretino reveals a boon com- 
 panion eating and drinking daintily and heartily, ap- 
 preciative of music, of elegant luxury and the society 
 of pleasure-seeking women. He is not violent, not tor- 
 mented by immeasurable and dolorous conceptions ; 
 his painting is healthy, exempt from morbid question- 
 ings and from painful complications ; he paints in- 
 cessantly, without turmoil of the brain and without 
 passion during his whole life. He commenced while 
 still a child, and his hand was naturally obedient to his 
 mind. -He declares that "his talent is a special grace 
 from heaven ;" that it is necessary to be thus endowed 
 in order to be a good painter, for, otherwise "one 
 cannot give birth to any but imperfect works ;" that in 
 this art " genius must not be agitated." Around him 
 beauty, taste, education, the talents of others, reflect 
 back on him, as from a mirror, the brightness of his 
 own genius. His brother, his son Orazio, his two cousins 
 Cesare and Fabrizio, his relative Marco di Titiano, are 
 all excellent painters. His daughter Lavinia, dressed 
 as Flora with a basket of fruit on her head, furnishes 
 him with a model in the freshness of her carnation, 
 and in the amplitude of her admirable forms. His 
 thought thus flows on like a broad river in a uniform 
 channel; nothing disturbs its course, and its own in- 
 crease satisfies him ; he aims at nothing beyond his 
 art, like Leonardo or Michael Angelo. "Daily he 
 designs something in chalk or in charcoal;" a supper 
 with Sansovino or Aretino makes the day complete. 
 He is never in a hurry ; he keeps his paintings a long 
 time at home in order to study them carefully and render 
 them still more perfect. His pictures do not scale off; 
 he uses, like his master Giorgone, simple colors, 
 " especially red and blue which never deform figures." 
 For eighty years and over he thus paints, completing 
 a century of existence, a pestilence, at last, being the 
 
TITIAN. 303 
 
 cause of his deatli ; the state sets aside its regula- 
 tions in order to honor him with a public funeral. It 
 would be necessary to revert to the brightest days of 
 pagan antiquity in order to find a genius so well 
 adapted to things around him, an expansion of faculties 
 so natural and so harmonious, a similar concord of 
 man with himself and with the world without. 
 
 We can see at the Academy the two extremes of his 
 development, his last picture, a " Descent from the 
 Cross" finished by Palma the younger, and one of his 
 early pictures, a " Visitation," which he probably exe- 
 cuted on quitting the school of John Bellini. In the 
 latter work the contours are precise ; the figure of St. 
 Joseph is almost dry, the sentiment of the color mani- 
 festing itself only through the intensity of the dark tint, 
 an opposition of tones and the softness of a pale violet 
 robe enlivening the full blue of a mantle. It is, again, 
 an altar-piece, the sober memorial of a revered legend. 
 At the other extremity of his career he converts the le- 
 gend into a grandiose and splendid decoration. That 
 which he first displays in this " Descent from the Cross" 
 is a broad white and gray architectural construction so 
 arranged as to give relief to the brightest tones of the 
 drapery and of the flesh-coloring, a portico bordered 
 with monumental statues and with iron-headed pedes- 
 tals, where living flowers twine around the subdued bril- 
 liancy of the marbles, forming those beautiful effects of 
 light and shade which the sun defines on the rotundi- 
 ties of arches. Under these, the Magdalen, in a green 
 robe, and the great red mantle of Nicodemus, unite their 
 mingled hues with the pallid and peculiarly luminous 
 tone of the corpse ; the aged disciple on his knees clasps 
 his master's hand for the last time and the Magdalen, 
 extending her arms, gives utterance to her deep feeling. 
 It might be called a pagan tragedy ; the artist has 
 freed himself from the christian mood and is now sim- 
 ply an artist. We have here the history in full of the 
 
804 
 
 YENETIAN AKT. 
 
 sixteentli century both, at Venice and elsewhere ; with Ti- 
 tian, however, the transformation was not long delayed. 
 An immense painting of his youth, the " Presentation 
 of the Virgin," shows with what boldness and facility he 
 enters, from almost the first flight which his genius takes 
 on the career which he is to pursue to the end. Whilst 
 the Florentines, educated hj the goldsmiths, concentrate 
 art on the imitation of individual form, the Venetians, 
 left to themselves expand it until they embrace entire 
 nature. It is not one man or one group which they see 
 but a full scene, five or six complete groups, architec- 
 ture, distances, a sky, a landscape, in short, a complete 
 fragment of being; here are fifty personages, three pala- 
 ces, the fagade of a temple, a portico, an obelisk, hillsides, 
 trees, mountains and banks of clouds all superposed in 
 the air. At the top of a vast series of gray stone steps 
 stands a body of priests and the high pontiff. The 
 young girl, meanwhile, blue in a blonde aureole, as- 
 cends midway, lifting up her robe ; she has nothing of 
 the sublime about her ; she is copied from life and her 
 little cheeks are plump, she raises her hand toward the 
 high-priest as if to steady herself and to inquire of 
 him what he wishes of her ; she is a perfect child, her 
 mind, as yet, being free of all thought ; Titian found 
 those just like her at catechism exercises. We see that 
 nature delights him, that real life is sufficient for him, 
 that he does not seek beyond this, that the poesy of 
 actual objects appears to him sufficiently great. In 
 the foreground facing the spectator and at the foot of 
 the staircase he has placed on old crone in a blue dress 
 and a white hood, a true village character who has 
 brought her marketing to town and keeps her basket 
 of eggs and chickens alongside of her ; a Fleming would 
 not risk more. But quite near to her, under the vines 
 clinging to the stones, is the bust of an antique statue ; 
 a superb procession of men and women in long vestments 
 displays itself at the foot of the steps ; rounded arcades, 
 
TITIAN. 305 
 
 corintliian columns, statues and cornices form a mag- 
 nificent decoration for the facades of the palaces. 
 One feels that he is in an actual city peopled with peas- 
 ants and ordinary men and women, attending to busi- 
 ness and practising their devotions, but decked with 
 antiquities, grandiose in structure, beautified by the arts, 
 illuminated by the sun and situated in the noblest and 
 richest of landscapes. More meditative, more divorced 
 from realities the Florentines create an ideal and 
 abstract world above our own ; more spontaneous, more 
 placid, Titian loves our world, comprehends it, shuts 
 himself up within it and reproduces it, ever embellishing 
 it without either recasting or suppressing it. 
 
 In seeking for the principal trait which distinguishes 
 him from his neighbors we find it to be simplicity ; by 
 not refining on color, action and types he obtains pow- 
 erful effect with color, action and types. Such is the 
 characteristic quality of his " Assumption," so celebra- 
 ted. A reddish, purple, intense tint envelops the entire 
 picture, the utmost vigor of color and a sort of 
 healthy energy breathing from the painting throughout. 
 Below are the apostles deflected and seated, nearly all 
 of them with their heads raised to heaven and as 
 bronzed as the sailors of the Adriatic; their hair and their 
 beards are black ; an intense shadow bathes their vis- 
 ages ; scarcely does the sombre ferruginous tint indicate 
 the flesh. One of them, in the centre, in a brown man- 
 tle almost disappears in the darks rendered still darker 
 by the surrounding brightness. Two pieces of drapery, 
 red as living arterial blood, project still more vividly in 
 contrast with two large green mantles, the whole forming 
 a colossal commotion of writhing arms, muscular shoul- 
 ders, impassioned heads and confused draperies. Over- 
 head, midway in the air, rises the Virgin in the midst of 
 a halo glowing like the vapor of a furnace ; she is of 
 their race, healthy and vigorous, unecstatic and without 
 the mj'stic smile, proudly intrenched in her red mantle 
 
^^^ VENETIAN AET. 
 
 which is enveloped by one of blue. The stuff takes 
 countless folds in the movements of her superb form ; 
 her attitude is athletic, her expression grave, and the 
 low tone of her features comes out in full relief against 
 the flaming brilliancy of the aureole. At her feet, ex- 
 tending over the entire space, is displayed a glittering 
 garland of youthful angels ; their fresh, empurpled, rosy 
 carnations traversed by shadows diffuse amidst these 
 energetic tones and forms the brightest bloom of human 
 vitality ; two of these detaching themselves from the 
 rest, come forward and sport in full light ; their infantile 
 forms revel with divine freedom in the air around them. 
 Nothing is effeminate or languid ; grace here maintains 
 its sway. It is a beautiful pagan festival, that of earnest 
 force and beaming youthfulness ; Venetian art centres 
 in this work and perhaps reaches its climax. 
 
 Titian's pictures are not numerous in Venice, Europe, 
 in general, having got possession of them ; enough of 
 them still remain, however, to show his full power. He 
 was endowed with that unique gift of producing Venuses 
 who are real women and colossi who are real men, that 
 is to say, a talent for imitating objects closely enough to 
 win us with the illusion and of so profoundly transform- 
 ing objects as to enkindle reverie. He has at once shown 
 in the same nude beauty, a courtezan, a patrician's mis- 
 tress, a listless and voluptuous fisherman's daughter 
 and a powerful ideal figure, the masculine force of a 
 sea-goddess and "the undulating forms of a queen of the 
 empyrean. He has at once made visible in the same 
 draped figure a warrior patriarch of the crusades, a 
 veteran hero of maritime strife, a muscular, athletic 
 wrestler, a podestat's or a sultan's grim and grandiose 
 air, a stern imperial or consular head, and with this, 
 or by its side a rude old soldier with swollen veins, the 
 vulgar mask of a spectacled judge, the bestial features 
 of a bearded Sclave, the sunburnt back and savage look 
 of a galley-rower, the flattened skull and vulture eye of 
 
TITIAN. 307 
 
 an embittered Jew, the ferocious glee of a fat execu- 
 tioner, every kindred wave by wliicli animal nature 
 joins itself to human nature. Through this comprehen- 
 sion of actual objects the field of art is ten times expand- 
 ed. The painter is no longer reduced, like the classic 
 masters, to an imperceptible variation of fifteen or 
 twenty accepted types. The infinite diversities of Nature 
 with all her inequalities are open to him ; the strongest 
 contrasts are within his range ; each of his works is as 
 rich as it is novel ; the spectator finds in him, as in 
 Bubens, a complete image of the world around him, a 
 physiology, a history, a psychology in an epitomized 
 form. Beneath the small and sublime Olympus, with 
 a few Greek forms sitting there eternally worshipped 
 by the kneeling orthodox, the artist takes possession of 
 the broad populous earth whereon the bloom of all 
 things is incessantly repeating itself. The accidental, 
 the irregular, everything, to him, is good ; they con- 
 stitute a part of the forces which keep the human sap 
 in circulation ; quaintness, deformities and excesses have 
 their interest as well as efflorescence and splendor ; his 
 only need is to feel and to render the powerful impul- 
 sion of the inward vegetation upheaving brute matter 
 and converting it into living forms in the heat of sun- 
 shine. Hence the ideas that crowd on the mind on re- 
 examining his paintings in San-Eocco, in the Salute 
 and in San-Giovanni, on meditating over those in Rome 
 and in Florence and in Blenheim and at London. We 
 linger in this church of Santa Maria della Salute : we 
 smile at the pretty, plump and rosy communicants of 
 Luca Giordano. We leave to it its pretentious decoration 
 and affected statues which the artists of the seventeenth 
 century have displayed under its arches. We compre- 
 hend the value of a simple and robust genius satisfied 
 with imitating and fortifying nature. We contem- 
 plate the ceiling of the choir, then, in the sacristy, the 
 manly Roman figure of Habakkuk, the bronzed and tra- 
 
SOS VENETIAN AET. 
 
 gic mask of Elias almost black beneath tbe wliite mitre, 
 a bald-headed St. Mark thrown backward of so spir- 
 ited a face and colored with such a beautiful reflection 
 of youth that we feel in it the vitahtj of great races in- 
 vincible against the attacks of time. Above all we re- 
 turn to the paintings of the ceihng : Goliath slain by 
 David, Abraham sacrificing Isaac, and Cain kilhng Abel. 
 "We recognize in the boldness and inspiration of these 
 colossi, the vigorous hand which traced the celebrated 
 imageries, the "Six Saints'' and the formidable "Pas- 
 sage of the Eed Sea." Save Michael Angelo, nobody has 
 thus handled the human frame. Abraham is a giant 
 and exterminator ; after seeing his head and gray 
 beard, his thigh and two nude arms impetuously is- 
 suing from his yellow drapery we feel the presence of a 
 genuine patriarch, combatant and dominator of men ; 
 he lifts his arm and all his muscles are fully dis- 
 tended ; the head of the boy Isaac is already bent down 
 by his violent hand. The movement is so energetic 
 that one single impulse runs through all three of the 
 personages from the feet of the precipitating angel 
 arresting the sword to the half-contorted body of the 
 man turning around, and across him, even to the yield- 
 ing neck of the prostrate child. — More furious still is 
 the gesture of the fratricide : not that Titian renders him 
 repulsive ; on the contrary his impetuosity bears the 
 spectator along with him ; it is not an assassin but a 
 Hercules slaying an enemy. Abel, overthrown on his 
 side, reels, stretching out his limbs. The other, as gi- 
 gantic and muscular as an athlete, one foot on the vic- 
 tim's breast falls back and with the full might of his 
 torso and rigid arms is about to destroy him. A som- 
 bre vinous tone reddens with its threatening hues the 
 intersections and ridges of the muscles and tendons and 
 the swellings and depressions of the excited flesh, while 
 the bestial visage of the murderer, obliquely illu- 
 
BONIFAZIO. 
 
 309 
 
 minated on one temple, is lost in a black fore- 
 shortening. 
 
 The Academy and the Churches. — I have neither cour- 
 age nor leisure to speak of other paintings. The 
 Academy contains seven hundred of them, to which add 
 those of the churches. It would require a volume ; 
 moreover the effect oftenest consists of a tone of 
 luminous flesh near a sombre one, and in the grada- 
 tions of tint of a red or of a green piece of drapery. 
 One may characterize it in gross Tvdth words, but when 
 it comes to delicacies words are inadequate. The only 
 proper thing to do is to come and enjoy for j'ourself. 
 We go repeatedly and again and again to the Academy. 
 We traverse the suspension bridge, the sole modern 
 and ungraceful work in Yenice. We enter haphazard 
 one of these twenty halls and select some of the mas- 
 ters with whom we will pass the afternoon, Palma- 
 Yecchio for instance and Bonifazio, whose color is as 
 rich and intense as Titian's. They are plants of the 
 same family ; but the public eye is fixed on the top- 
 most branch of the stem. One of the pictures by 
 Bonifazio, " The Wicked Bich Man's Banquet," is ad- 
 mirable. Under an open portico, between veined 
 columns, are seated large and magnificent women in 
 square low-necked dresses and black velvet skirts, with 
 sleeves of ruddy gold and in robes rudely figured with 
 red and yellow; superb forms of a stout build, with 
 fleshy muscles audaciously displayed in the barbarous 
 luxury of variegated stuffs descending in hea^-y folds 
 about their heels. A little negro, a small domestic 
 animal, holds a scroll of music before a female singer 
 and some players on instruments ; the air resounds 
 with voices, and, to complete this noisy pomp, we per- 
 ceive outside of the gardens, horses, falconers and all 
 the paraphernalia of seigneurial parade. Amidst this 
 display sits the master in a great mantle of red velvet, 
 
310 VENETLIN ART. 
 
 sanguine and sombre like a Henry YIII. with tlie hard 
 and stern expression of a sensuality gorging itself 
 without satiety."^ Pleasures of this description would 
 repel us ; we have become too cultivated and too tame 
 to comprehend them ; courtezans of that stamp would 
 frighten us ; they are too unintellectual and too gross ; 
 their arms would fell us to the ground and their eyes 
 give an expression of too great hardness. Only in the 
 sixteenth century did people love massive and violent 
 voluptuousness : then the fury of lusts and sensual 
 gluttony were copied from life ; but, on the other hand, 
 it was only in the sixteenth century, that they knew 
 how to paint perfect beauty. We recross the iron 
 bridge, so formal and so ugly, and, plunging into a 
 labyrinth of petty streets, go to Santa Maria Formosa, 
 in order to see the " Saint Barbara" of Palma-Yecchio. 
 She is no saint, but a blooming young girl, the most 
 attractive and lovable that one can imagine. She stands 
 erect, proud in her bearing with a crown on her brow 
 and her robe, carelessly gathered around the waist, un- 
 dulates in folds of orange purple against the bright 
 scarlet of her mantle. Two streams of magnificent 
 brown hair glide down on either side of her neck ; her 
 delicate hands seem to be those of a goddess ; one half 
 of her face is in shadow and half-lights play upon her 
 uplifted hand. Her beautiful eyes are beaming and 
 her fresh and dehcate lips are about to smile ; she dis- 
 plays the gay and noble spirit of Venetian women ; 
 ample and not too full, spirituelle and benevolent, she 
 seems to be made to give happiness to herself and to 
 others. 
 
 Let us set the others aside. What a pity, however, 
 to quit the five or six Yeroneses in the Academy, his 
 ^'Eepast at the house of Levi," his "Apostles on the 
 Clouds," his " Annunciation," his virgins, his lustrous 
 
 * Compare this with the same scene treated by Teniers. 
 
VERONESE. 311 
 
 variegated marble columns, his golden niches rayed 
 with dark arabesques, his grand staircases, his balus- 
 trades profiled on the blue sky, his ruddy silks striped 
 with gold, his white horses rearing under their scarlet 
 housings, his guards and his negroes decked in red and 
 green, his stately robes starred with intricate branch- 
 ings and lustrous designs, and especially the wonderful 
 diversity of heads and the tranquil harmony that radi- 
 ates like music from his silvery color, his serene figures 
 and his rich decorations ! If Titian is sovereign, and 
 the dominator of the school, Veronese is its regent and 
 viceroy. If the former has the simple force and gran- 
 deur of its founders, the latter possesses the calmness 
 and genial smile of an undisputed and legitimate mon- 
 arch. That which he seeks and finds is not the 
 sublime or heroic, not violence or sanctity, not purity 
 or softness : all these conditions show only one of the 
 faces of nature, and indicate a purification, an effort, 
 enervation or intractability ; what he loves is expanded 
 beauty, the flower in full bloom but intact, just when 
 its rosy petals unfold themselves while none of them 
 are, as yet, withered. He has the air of addressing 
 himself to his contemporaries and of saying to them : 
 " We are noble beings, Venetians and grand seignors 
 of a privileged and superior race. Let us not reject 
 or repress anything about us ; mind, heart and senses, 
 everything we have merits gratification. Let us delight 
 our instincts and our soul, and let us make of life a 
 fete in which felicity shall confound itself with beauty." 
 But you may see several of his great works in the 
 Louvre and you will understand him much better 
 through a picture than through any reasoning of mine. 
 One man of genius, on the contrary, Tintoretto, has 
 almost all his works at Venice. One has no suspicion 
 of his value until one has come here. As a day is still 
 left to me let us devote it to him. 
 
CHAPTEE Y. 
 
 THE CHARACTER AND GENIUS OF TINTORETTO.-THE " SnRACLE OF 
 ST. MARK."— THE SCUOLA OF SAN-ROCCO.— THE " CRUCIFIXION."— 
 GENERAL IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 A MOKE vigorous and more fecund artistic tempera- 
 ment is not to be found in the world. In many particu- 
 lars he resembles Michael Angelo. He approximates to 
 him in savage originality and in energy of will. But a 
 few days transpire when Titian, his master, on seeing 
 his sketches, becomes jealous, gets alarmed and sends 
 him away from his school. Child as he is he deter- 
 mines to learn, and to achieve success unaided. He 
 procures plaster casts from the antique and from 
 Michael Angelo's works, seeks out and copies Titian's 
 paintings, draws fi'om the nude, dissects, models in 
 wax and in clay, drapes his models, suspends them in 
 the air, studies foreshortenings and works desperately. 
 Wherever a painting is being executed he is present 
 " and learns his profession by looking on." His brain 
 ferments and his conceptions so torment him that he is 
 obliged to get rid of them ; he goes with the masons to 
 the citadel and traces figures around the clock. Mean- 
 while he practises with Schiavone, and thenceforth feels 
 himself a master ; " his thoughts boil ;" he suggests to 
 the fathers of the Madonna del' Orto four grand subjects, 
 "The "Worship of the Golden Calf," the "Last Judg- 
 ment," hundreds of feet of canvas, thousands of figures, 
 an overflow of imagination and genius ; he will execute 
 them gratuitously, requiring no pay but his expenses ; 
 he requires nothing but an issue and an outlet. On 
 another occasion the brotherhood of San-Rocco having 
 demanded of five celebrated artists cartoons for a 
 painting which they wish to have executed he secretly 
 
TINTORETTO. 313 
 
 takes the measure of tlie place, completes the picture in a 
 few da3^s, brings it to the spot designated and declares 
 that he presents it to San-Kocco. His competitors 
 stand aghast at this fury of invention and of dispatch : 
 and thus does he always labor ; it seems as if his mind 
 was a volcano always charged and in a state of eruption. 
 Canvases of twenty, forty and seventy feet, crowded 
 with figures as large as life — overthrown, massed to- 
 gether, launched through the air, foreshortened in the 
 most violent manner and with splendid effects of light 
 — scarcely suffice to contain the rapid, fiery, dazzling 
 jet of his brain. He covers entire churches with them, 
 and his life, like that of Michael Angelo, is there ex- 
 hausted. His habits are those of all savage, violent 
 geniuses out of harmony with society, in whom the 
 inner growth of the sentiments is so strong that pleas- 
 ure is distasteful and who find refuge, composure and 
 tranquillity only in their art. " He Uved in his own 
 thoughts, afar from every joy," absorbed in his studies 
 and with his work. On ceasing to paint he retires to 
 the remotest corner of his dwelling, and shuts himself 
 up in a chamber where, in order to see clearly, a lamp 
 has to be lighted in the daytime. Here, for diversion, 
 he fashions his models ; nobody is permitted to enter ; 
 never does he paint before any one except his intimates, 
 " His sole ambition is fame," and especially the desire 
 to surpass himself, to attain to perfection. His words 
 are few and trenchant ; his grave and rude physiogno- 
 my is the exact image of his soul. ^ On uttering a 
 piquant remark his face remains fixed, he does not 
 laugh. Bravely and proudly does he lay out his own 
 course, singly and against the open jealousy and hos- 
 tility of other painters, and maintains himself erect 
 before the public as before the rulers of opinion. Pis- 
 tol in hand he silences, with cool irony, the cynic 
 
 * See his portrait by himself. 
 14 
 
314 
 
 VENETIAN AET. 
 
 Aretino. On his friends exhibiting a picture in public 
 he counsels them to stay at home : " let them shoot 
 their arrows, people must get accustomed to jour con- 
 ceptions." The more one studies his life and works 
 the more one sees in him a colorist Michael Angelo, 
 less concentrated than he, less self-mastering, less 
 qualified to refine upon his ideas, wholly given up to 
 his fancies, and whose impetuosity makes of him an 
 improvisator. 
 
 Hence it is that when his conception is just or matured 
 he rises to an extraordinalry height. No painting, in 
 my judgment, surpasses or perhaps equals his St. Mark in 
 the Academy ; at all events no painting has made an 
 equal impression on my mind. It is avast picture twenty 
 feet square containing fifty figures of the size of life, St. 
 Mark sombre in the light, and a slave luminous amidst 
 sombre personages. The saint descends from the upper- 
 most sky head foremost, precipitated, suspended in the 
 air in order to rescue a slave from punishment ; his 
 head is in shadow and his feet are in the light ; his 
 body, compressed by an extraordinary feat of fore- 
 shortening, plunges at one bound with the impetuosity 
 of an eagle. No one, save Eubens, has so caught the 
 instantaneousness of motion, the fury of flight ; along- 
 side of this vehemence and this truthfulness classic 
 figures seem stiff, as if copied after Academy models 
 whose arms are upheld by strings ; we are borne along 
 with and follow him to the ground, as yet unreached. 
 Here, the naked slave, thrown upon his back in front 
 of the spectator and as miraculously foreshortened as 
 the other, glows with the luminiousness of a Correggio. 
 His superb, virile, muscular body palpitates; his 
 ruddy cheeks, contrasted with his black curled beard, 
 are empurpled with the brightest hues of life. The 
 axes of iron and wood have been shattered to pieces 
 without having touched his flesh, and all are gazing at 
 them. The turbaned executioner with upraised hands 
 
315 
 
 sliows the judge tlie broken handle with an air of 
 amazement, which excites him throughout. The judge, 
 in a red Venetian pourpoint, springs half way off his 
 seat and from his marble steps. The assistants around 
 stretch themselves out and crowd up, some in sixteenth 
 century armor, others in cuirasses of Roman leather, 
 others in barbaric simarres and turbans, others in Yene- 
 tian caps and dalmatics, some with legs and arms 
 naked, and one wholly so except a mantle over his 
 thighs and a handkerchief on his head, with splendid 
 contrasts of light and dark, with a variety, a brilliancy, 
 an indescribable seductiveness of light reflected in the 
 polished depths of the armor, diffused over lustrous 
 figurings of silks, imprisoned in the warm shadows of 
 the flesh and enlivened by the carnations, the greens 
 and the rayed yellows of the opulent materials. Not a 
 figure is there that does not act and act all over ; not a 
 fold of drapery, not a tone of the body is there that does 
 not add to the universal dash and brilliancy. A woman 
 supported against a pedestal falls back in order to see 
 better ; she is so animated that her whole body trembles, 
 her eyes flash and her mouth opens. Architectural 
 forms in the background and men on the terraces or 
 clinging to columns add the amplitude of space to the 
 scenic richness. We can breathe freely there, and the 
 breath we take is more inspiring than elsewhere ; it is 
 the flame of life as it flashes forth in gleaming lucidity 
 from the adult and perfect brain of a man of genius ; 
 here all quivers and palpitates in the joyousness of 
 light and of beauty. There is no example of such 
 luxuriousness and success of invention ; one must see 
 for himself the boldness and ease of the jet, the natural 
 impulse of genius and temperament, the lively spon- 
 taneous creation, the necessity of expressing and the 
 satisfaction in rendering his idea instantly unconscious 
 of rules, the sure and sudden dash of an instinct 
 which culminates at once and without effort in perfect 
 
316 VENETIAN ART. 
 
 action as tlie bird flies and the horse runs. Attitudes, 
 types and costumes of every kind, with all their 
 peculiarities and divergencies flooded their minds and 
 fell into harmony in one sublime moment. The 
 curved back of a woman, a cuirass gleaming with 
 light, an indolent nude form in transparent shadow, 
 rosy flesh with the pulsating amber skin, the deep 
 scarlet of careless folds, the medley of heads, arms and 
 legs, the reflection of tones brightened and transformed 
 by mutual illumination, all disgorged in a mass Hke 
 water spouting from a surcharged conduit. Sudden 
 and complete concentrations are inspiration itseK, and 
 perhaps there is not in the world one fuller and more 
 animated than this one. 
 
 I believe that before having seen this work one can 
 have no idea of the human imagination. I set aside 
 ten other pictures that are in the Academy, a " Saint 
 Agnes," a " Eesurrection of Christ," a " Death of 
 Abel" and an " Eve," a superb and solid sensual form 
 with rude contours, stoutly built, the legs undulating, 
 the head animal and expressionless but blooming and 
 full of life, so strong and so joyous in its tranquilhty, so 
 richly mottled with lights and shadows that here, even 
 more than in Rubens, one feels the full poesy of 
 nudity and of flesh. It is in the churches and in the 
 public monuments that he is to be understood ; there 
 is scarcely one of these that does not contain vast pic- 
 tures by him, — an "Assumption" in the Jesuits', a 
 " Crucifixion" and I know not how many other can- 
 vases in San Giovanni e Paolo, the "Marriage of 
 Cana" at Santa Maria della Salute, four colossal paint- 
 ings at Santa Maria del' Orto, the " Forty Martyrs," 
 the "Shower of Manna," the "Last Supper," the 
 " Martyrdom of St. Stephen" at San Giorgio, twenty 
 pictures and ceilings, a "Paradise" twenty -three feet 
 high and seventy-seven feet long in the Ducal Palace, 
 and finally, at the Church of San-Eocco and at the Scuola 
 
TINTORETTO. 317 
 
 of San-Eocco, wliicli seem like liis own galleries, forty 
 pictures, a few of them gigantic and capable together 
 of covering the walls of two square saloons in the 
 Louvre. Veritably we do not know him in Europe. 
 The European galleries contain scarcely anything by 
 him, the few^ examples they have acquired being small 
 or of minor importance. Save three or four scenes in 
 the Ducal Palace he has been poorly engraved ; ex- 
 cept a " Crucifixion" by Augustino Carrache his great 
 ■works have not been engraved. He is disproportionate 
 in everything, in dimensions as well as in his concep- 
 tions. Academic minds at the end of the sixteenth 
 century decried him as extravagant and negligent : the 
 prodigious and the superhuman in his genius prove 
 distasteful to minds of a common stamp or fond of re- 
 pose. But the truth is no man like him is or has been 
 seen ; he is unique in his w^ay like Michael Angelo, 
 Eubens and Titian. Let him be called extravagant, 
 impetuous and improvisator ; let people complain of 
 the blackness of his coloring, of his figures topsy- 
 turvy, of the confusion of his groups, of his hasty 
 brush, of the exhaustion and the mannerism which 
 sometimes lead him to introduce old metal into his new 
 casting ; let all the defects of his qualities be adduced 
 against him, I am willing ; — but a furnace like this, so 
 ardent, so overflowing, with such outbursts and flaming 
 coruscations, with such an immense jet of sparks, with 
 such luminous flashes so sudden and multiplied, with 
 such a surprising and constant volume of smoke and 
 flame has never been encountered here below. 
 
 I know not, indeed, how to speak of him ; I cannot 
 describe his paintings, so vast are they and so numer- 
 ous. It is the inward condition of his mind that must 
 be enlarged upon. It seems to me that, in him, we dis- 
 cover a unique state of things, the Hghtning-burst of 
 inspiration. The term is strong, but it corresponds to 
 ascertained facts of which examples may be cited. In 
 
318 VENETIAN AET. 
 
 certain extreme moments, when confronting great dan- 
 ger, in any sudden crisis, man sees distinctly, in a flash, 
 with terrible intensity, whole years of his life, com- 
 plete incidents and scenes and often a fragment of the 
 imaginary world : the recollections of the asphyxiated 
 and the accounts of persons escaping from drowning, 
 the revelations of suicides and of opium-eaters,* and 
 of the Indian Pur anas all confirm this. The activity of 
 the brain suddenly increased ten or a hundredfold 
 causes the mind to live more in this brief foreshorten- 
 ing of time than in all the rest of life put together. It 
 is true that it commonly issues from this subhme state 
 of hallucination exhausted and morbid ; but when the 
 temperament is sufficiently vigorous to support the 
 electric shock without flagging, men like Luther, St. 
 Ignatius, St. Paul and all the great visionaries accom- 
 plish works transcending the powers of humanity. 
 Such are the transports of creative imagination in the 
 breasts of great artists ; with less of a counterpoise 
 they were as strong with Tintoretto as with the greatest. 
 If a proper idea be formed of this iuYoluntary and ex- 
 traordinary state in a tragic temperament like his, and 
 of the colorist senses such as he possessed, we can see 
 how everything else follows. 
 
 He never selects ; his vision imposes itself on him ; 
 an imaginative scene to him is a reahty ; with one dash, 
 he copies it instantaneously, along with whatever in it 
 is odd, surprising, vast and multitudinous ; he ex- 
 tracts a portion from nature and transfers it bodily to 
 his canvas, with all the force and abruptness of a spon- 
 taneous creation knowing neither combination nor 
 hesitancy. It is not two or three personages he paints 
 but a scene, a fragment of life, an entire landscape and 
 a populous architecture. His " Marriage of Cana" is 
 a complete, gigantic dining-hall, with ceilings, windows, 
 
 * " Confessions of an Opium Eater," by De Quincey. 
 
TINTORETTO. 319 
 
 doors, floors, domestics, an exit into side-rooms, the 
 guests in two files around the receding table, the men 
 on one side and the women on the other, the two rows 
 of heads appearing like the two lines of trees of an ave- 
 nue, and, at the far end, Christ, small and effaced, on 
 account of the multitude and the distance. His " Pis- 
 cine probatique" at the Scuola San-Rocco is a hospi- 
 tal ; half-naked women stretched on a sheet which peo- 
 ple are lifting, others on couches with bare legs and 
 breasts, one in a tub entirely stripped and Christ in the 
 midst of them among fevers and ulcers. His " Shower 
 of Manna" is an encampment of people with all the 
 petty details of hfe, every diversity of landscape and all 
 the grandeur of illimitable distances : here is a camel 
 and his driver, there a man near a table with a pestle, 
 in another place two women washing, another young- 
 woman listening and stooping to mend a basket, others 
 seated near a tree, others turning a reel with sheets at- 
 tached to it to collect the manna and a grand draped 
 old man in consultation with Moses. In his exuberance 
 as in his genius he surpasses his own age and approxi- 
 mates to ours. His pictures seem to be " illustrations; " 
 only he produces in a length of forty feet, with figures as 
 large as life, what we try to do in the space of a foot 
 with figures no bigger than one's finger. Life in 
 general interests him more than the particular life of 
 one being ; he discards picturesque and plastic rules, 
 subordinating the personage to the whole and parts to 
 the effect. He is impelled to render, not this or that 
 man standing or lying, but a moment in nature or in 
 history. He is invaded as if from without ; he is over- 
 powered by an image which takes possession of him, 
 torments him and in which he has faith. 
 
 Hence his unprecedented originality. Compared 
 with him all painters are self-copyists ; you are always 
 astonished before his pictures ; you ask yourself where 
 he went for that, into what unknown and fantastic but 
 
820 
 
 VENETIAN AET. 
 
 nevertheless real world. In the "Last Supper" the 
 central figure is a large kneeling servant, her head in 
 shadow and her shoulder luminous ; she holds a platter 
 of beans and is bringing in dishes ; a cat attempts to 
 climb up her basket. Round about are buffets, domes- 
 tics, ewers and disciples in a perpendicular file border- 
 ing a long table. It is a supper, a veritable evening re- 
 past, which is for him the essential idea. Above the 
 table glimmers a lamp while a blue light from the moon 
 falls on their heads ; but the supernatural enters on all 
 sides : in the background by an opening in the sky and 
 a choir of radiant angels ; on the right by a swarm of 
 pale angels whirling about in the nocturnal obscurity. 
 With extraordinary boldness and force of verisimilitude 
 the two worlds divine and human, merge into each 
 other and form but one. When this man reads in the 
 Evangelists the technical term it is the corporeal ob- 
 ject with all its details which forcibly impresses him 
 and which he forcibly renders. St. Joseph was a car- 
 penter ; instantly, in order to depict the Annunciation, 
 he represents the actual house of a carpenter, — on the 
 outside a shed in order to work in the open air, the 
 disorder of a workshop, bits of wood and carpentry 
 tumbled about, piled up, adjusted, leaning against the 
 walls, saws, planes, cords, a workman busy ; within, a 
 large bed with red curtains, a bottomless chair, a 
 child's willow cradle, the wife in a red petticoat, a 
 vigorous, amazed and frightened plebeian. A Fleming 
 could not have more accurately imitated the confusion 
 and vulgarity of common life. But passion always 
 accompanies these intense and circumstantial visions. 
 Gabriel and a flock of tumultuous whirling angels dart 
 athwart the door and window ; the unfinished domicile 
 seems to be shattered by the shock ; it is the fury of 
 an invasion ; the pigeons betake themselves in full 
 flight to their own tenement; they pitch all together 
 upon the Virgin. You may judge by this frenzied and 
 
TINTORETTO. 321 
 
 disproportionate activity the irresistible irruption with 
 which tumultuous ideas are unloosed in his mind. No 
 painter has thus loved, felt and rendered action. All 
 his figures dart and re-dart forward and backward. 
 There is a " Kesurrection" by him in which no figure 
 is in a state of equilibrium ; angels descend head 
 foremost from above ; Christ and the saints swim in 
 the air ; the atmosphere is a resistant and palpable 
 fluid which sustains bodies and allows them every atti- 
 tude as water does the fishes. When he chances to 
 paint a violent scene like the " Bronze Serpent" or a 
 '''Massacre of the Innocents" it is a delirium. The 
 women freely seize the swords of the executioners, roll 
 down precipitated from the heights of a terrace, strain 
 their infants to their breasts with an animal gripe and 
 fall upon them covering them with their bodies. Five 
 or six bodies, one on top of the other, women and 
 children, wounded, dying and living, form a mound. 
 The space is covered with a mass of heads and limbs, 
 and torsos falling, running, struggling and staggering 
 as if a hurly-burly of inebriates ; it is the infuriate 
 bacchanalianism of despair. Near this, on a mountain 
 cliff dog-headed serpents forage amongst a monstrous 
 heap of prostrated men. One, already black, having 
 died howling, lies on his back his limbs swollen with 
 the venom, his muscles contorted with convulsions, the 
 breast strained and projecting and the head cast back- 
 ward ; others, in the last agony, bleed and writhe, 
 some on the flank, others erect and stiff, with bowed 
 head, and others with their thighs drawn up and their 
 arms contorted, all under livid lights contending with 
 deathly shadows, rolling, heaving and pitching like a 
 human avalanche down the side of a precipice. The 
 artist is on his own domain ; he wanders about grandly 
 in the realm of the impossible. He sees too much at 
 once, forty, sixty and eighty personages and their sur- 
 roundings, aroused, commmgled and crowded beneath 
 
323 
 
 YENETIAN ART. 
 
 a tragedy of lights and darks. Let his second Piscine 
 prohatique in the church of San-Eocco be contemplated ; 
 no sky, no background ; save the roof and four shafts 
 of Ionic columns, all consists of bodies and heaps of 
 bodies, naked backs and breasts, heads, beards, man- 
 tles and drapery, a monstrous accumulation of over- 
 thrown humanity, male and female, supporting each 
 other and extending their arms to the Saviour Christ. 
 A woman stretched on her back turns her eyes toward 
 him to demand succor. An enormous torso in the 
 agony of death reaches out and falls upon a pile of 
 drapery in a last attempt to draw near the source of 
 cure. Here and there are beautiful faces of suppliant 
 spouses emergmg into light, bald skulls of old soldiers, 
 muscular breasts and grand beards like those of the 
 river-gods. In the foreground a colossal attendant, a 
 sort of athlete and porter, contracts his thighs and bows 
 himself up on his loins to carry off a bundle of linen. 
 Another, an old giant, almost naked, sits against a 
 column, his legs hang down and he appears resigned 
 like an old inmate of a hospital; his reddened and 
 flabby skin wrinkles at every anfractuosity of the mus- 
 cles ; he has waited years and can wait still longer : he 
 muses with an upturned face sensitive to the sunshine 
 which rewarms his old blood. — Through this taste for 
 the actual and the colossal, through these violent' con- 
 trasts of light and dark, through this passion which 
 bears him on to the end of his conception, through this 
 audacity which leads him to thoroughly display his idea 
 he is the most dramatic of painters. Delacroix should 
 have come here ; he would have recognized one of his 
 ancestors, sensitive like himself to crude reality, to un- 
 restrained energy, to aggregate effects, to the moral 
 force of color, but healthier, more sure of his hand and 
 nurtured by a more picturesque age and in a broader 
 sentiment of physical grandeur. None of Delacroix's 
 pictures leave a more poignant impression than " St. 
 
THE ALBEEGO. o»o 
 
 Eocli among tlie Prisoners." They are in a vast som- 
 bre dungeon, a sort of antique ergastulum, where iron 
 bars, stocks and straining chains rack and dislocate 
 limbs through slow and prolonged turning. The saint 
 appears ; a miserable creature fastened by the neck 
 raises toward him his twisted head ; another, from the 
 bottom of a grated fosse, fixes his face against the bars ; 
 spines reddened and rigid with muscles, breasts of the 
 color of rust, heads brown like lions' manes, white, lu- 
 minous beards appear in the midst of sepulchral ob- 
 scurity ; but higher up, in the duskiness of the shadow, 
 float exquisite figures, silver}^ silken robes, tunics of 
 pale violet and blonde radiant hair, the visitation of an 
 angelic choir. 
 
 After having passed through the church and the two 
 stories of the Scuola there still remains a grand hall to 
 visit, the Albergo ; the walls and ceilings here are also 
 tapestried with paintings by Tintoretto, It is in vain 
 to say to yourself that you are weary, and to accuse 
 the painter of exuberance and excess, to feel that these 
 forty immense pictures were executed too rapidly and 
 rather indicated than perfected, that he presumes on 
 his own and the spectator's powers. You enter, and you 
 find strength left, because he imparts it to you in spite 
 of yourself. Yirgins and women thrown backAvard swim 
 on the panels of the ceiling, their ample beauty, the 
 magnificent rotundity of their flesh bathed in shadow, 
 being displayed with inexpressible richness of tone. A 
 " Christ bearing the Cross" develops itself on the 
 winding escarpment of a mountain ; Christ, with a rope 
 around his neck, is dragged on in front, while the sav- 
 age procession scales the rocks with the sorrowful and 
 furious dash of a " Passion" by Kubens.* On the 
 other side the meek Christ stands before Pilate, and the 
 long white shroud wholly enveloping him contrasts its 
 
 * The same scene in the Brussels Musee, by Rubens. 
 
324 VENETIAN AKT. 
 
 funereal color witli the black shadows of the architec- 
 ture and with the blood-red vestments of the assistants. 
 Over the door a ruddj corpse lies stiffened between the 
 soldiers and the scarlet robes of the judges ; but these 
 are merely accompaniments. An entire section of the 
 hall, a wall forty feet long and high in proportion, disap- 
 pears beneath a " Crucifixion," ten scenes in one, and 
 so balanced as to constitute a single composition ; 
 eighty figures grouped and spaced, a plateau strewn 
 with rocks at the base of a mountain, trees, towers, a 
 bridge, cavaHers, stony crests, and in the distance, a 
 vast brownish horizon. Never did eye embrace such en- 
 sembles, or combine the like effects. In the centre 
 Christ is nailed to the upraised cross, and his drooping 
 head is obscure in the dim radiance of his nimbus. A 
 ladder rises behind the cross, and executioners are 
 climbing lip and passing to each other the sponge. At 
 the foot of the cross the disciples and women standing 
 extend their arms, and those kneeling sob and weep ; 
 the Virgin swoons, and all these forms of bending, tot- 
 tering, falling women under grand red and blue draper- 
 ies of every hue, with a flash of sunlight on a cheek or 
 a chin, produce a funereal pomp of the most imposing 
 character. Like a grandiose harmony sustaining a 
 rich and penetrating voice, surrounding crowds and in- 
 cidents accompany the principal scene with their tragic 
 variety and splendor. On the left, one of the two 
 thieves is already bound to his cross and is being raised 
 up ; the upper part of his body glows in the light, and 
 the rest is in shadow. Five or six executioners strain 
 at the ropes and support those who are cHmbing up, 
 pulling and pushing with all the might and force of the 
 rigid muscular machinery. The light falls across their 
 rosy and rayed cassocks, on the brown tendons of their 
 necks and on the swollen veins of their foreheads. 
 Their implements are there, axes, picks, wedges, a mas- 
 sive ladder, and, at the head of the cross, in a beautiful 
 
"the crucifixion. " 325 
 
 luminous shadow, an indifferent spectator leaning over 
 his horse's neck and looking on. — On the other side, with 
 equal splendor and diversity, is displayed the third exe- 
 cution, like one chorus corresponding tcJ another cho- 
 rus. The cross lies on the ground, and the victim is 
 being attached to it ; one executioner brings ropes, an- 
 other, a superb, athletic fellow, expanding his twisted 
 shoulder, turns an auger in one of its arms ; at the foot 
 of the plateau sits an old amateur of such spectacles ; 
 it interests him ; he bends forward half reclining in his 
 red mantle, and near him, on an iron-gray horse, a sort 
 of ruffian in a cap, a tall, red scamp, fully illuminated, 
 leans over in order to make a serviceable suggestion. — 
 Beyond these three scenes, there rolls in tiers on five or 
 six planes, with an innumerable variety of tints and 
 forms, the broad and pompous harmony of the multitude, 
 assistants of every kind, petty accessory incidents, dig- 
 gers excavating the graves of the criminals, crossbowmen 
 in a hollow drawing lots for the tunics, priests in grand 
 robes, men-at-arms in cuirasses, cavaliers boldly draped 
 and posed, simarres of Jews and armor of gentlemen, 
 spirited horses in neutral and auroral trappings, wo- 
 men's orange and green skirts, contrasts of delicate and 
 intense tones, popular visages and chivalric brows, easy 
 and complicated attitudes, all in such amplitude of 
 light, with such a triumphant expansion of genius and 
 such perfect representation that one goes away half 
 stunned, as from a too rich and powerful concert, all 
 sense of the proportion of things gone and wondering 
 if one ought to have faith in his own sensations. 
 
 May 1st, — I have just purchased the engraving of 
 Augustino Carrache ; it only gives the skeleton of the 
 picture and even falsifies it. I returned to-day to 
 see the picture again. He is a little less impressive 
 on the second inspection ; the effect of the whole, that 
 of the first sight, is too essential in the eyes of Tinto- 
 retto ; he subordinates the rest to these, his hand is too 
 
oJib VENETIAN ART. 
 
 prompt, lie too readily follows out his first conception. 
 In this respect he is superior to the masters ; he has 
 only done two complete things, his mythological subjects 
 in the Ducal Palace and his " Miracle of St. Mark." 
 
 3Iay 2(i. — When, after quitting Venetian art, one tries 
 to gather up his impressions into a complete whole, he 
 is sensible only of one emotion, and that is like the 
 sweet sonorous echo of perfect enjoyment. Part of a 
 naked foot issuing from silk mottled with gold, a 
 pearl whose milky brightness quivers on touching a 
 snowy neck, the ruddy warmth of life peering out be- 
 neath transparent shadow, the gradations and alter- 
 nations of clear and sombre surfaces following the 
 muscular undulations of the body, the opposition and 
 agreement of two flesh-tones lost in each other and 
 transformed by interchanging reflections, a vacillating 
 light fringing a piece of dark metal, a purple spot 
 enhvened by a green tone, in brief, a rich harmony 
 due to colors manipulated, opposed and composed as a 
 concert proceeds from various instruments, and which 
 fills the eye as the concert fills the ear, — this is the one 
 peculiar endowment. By this inventiveness forms are 
 vivified ; alongside of these others seem abstract. Else- 
 where the body has been separated from its surround- 
 ings, it has been simplified and reduced ; it has been 
 forgotten that the contour is only the Hmit of a color, 
 that for the eye color is the object itself. For, so soon 
 as the eye is sensitive it feels in the object, not alone a 
 diminution of brilliancy proportioned to its receding 
 planes, but again a multitude and a mingling of tones, 
 a general blueness augmenting with distance, an infinity 
 of reflections which other bright objects intersect and 
 overlie with diverse colors and intensities, a constant 
 vibration of the interposing atmosphere where float 
 imperceptible irridescences, where there are growing 
 striae quivering and speckled with innumerable atoms, 
 and in which fugitive appearances are incessantly dis- 
 
THE SPIRIT OF VENETIAN ART. 327 
 
 solving and vanishing. The exterior as well as the 
 interior of beings is only movement, change and trans- 
 formation, and their complicated agitation is life. 
 Starting from this the Venetians vivify and harmonize 
 the infinite tones uniting to compose a tint ; they make 
 perceptible the mutual contagion by which bodies com- 
 municate their reflections ; they augment the power by 
 which an object receives, returns, colors, tempers and 
 harmonizes the innumerable luminous rays striking on 
 it, like a man who straining soft cords enhances their 
 vibrating qualities in order to convey sounds to the ear 
 which our coarser ears had not yet detected. They 
 develop and thus exalt the visible existence of things ; 
 out of the real they fashion the ideal : hence a newborn 
 poesy. Let there be added to this that of form, and 
 that genius through which they invent a complete 
 spontaneous, original, intermediary type between that 
 of the Florentines and that of the Flemings, exquisite 
 in softness and voluptuousness, sublime in force and in 
 inspiration, capable of furnishing giants, athletes, 
 kings, empresses, porters, courtezans, the most real 
 and the most ideal figures, in such a way as to unite 
 extremes and assemble in one personage the most ex- 
 quisite charm of sensibility and the most grandiose 
 majesty, a grace almost as seductive as that of Cor- 
 reggio, but with richer health and more vigorous ampli- 
 tude, a flow of life as fresh and almost as broad as that 
 of Rubens, but with more beautiful forms and a better 
 regulated rhythm, an energy almost as colossal as that 
 of Michael Angelo, but without painful severity or re- 
 volting despair : — then may one judge of the place 
 which the Venetians occupy among painters and I do 
 not know if I yield to personal inclination in preferring 
 them to any. 
 
BOOK YIL 
 
 LOMBAEDY 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 VERONA.— THE AMPHITHEATRE.— CHURCHES.— LOMBARD STYLE OF 
 ARCHITECTURE.— THE DUOMO.— SAN ZENONE.— THE SCALIGERS.— 
 THE PIAZZA.— THE MUSEO. 
 
 On leaving Yenice the train seems to pass over the 
 surface of the water ; the sea glows on the right and 
 on the left and ripples up within two paces of the 
 wheels ; the sandbanks are multiplied amidst the 
 shiniug pools. The lagunes diminish ; great ditches 
 absorb whatever remains of the water and drain the 
 soil. The immense plain becomes green and is covered 
 with vegetation ; the crops are sprouting young anji 
 fresh, and the vines are budding on the trees while, on 
 the sloping declivities, pretty country-houses warm 
 themselves iu the mid-day sunshine. Meanwhile, to 
 the north, between the great verdant expanse and the 
 grand blue dome overhead, the Alpine wall bristles up 
 dark with its rocks, towers and bastions, shattered 
 Hke the ruins of an enclosure demohshed by artillery, 
 the pale clouds of smoke issuing from their anfractu- 
 osities and their crests indented with snow. 
 
 An hour more and we enter Yerona, a melancholy 
 provincial town paved with cobble-stones and neglected. 
 Many of the streets are deserted ; alongside of the 
 bridges are piles of ordure descendifig into the stream. 
 Eemains of old sculptures and of tarnished arabesques 
 
VERONA. 339 
 
 run here and there along the facades ; the once pros- 
 perous air of the city is evident but it is now fallen. 
 
 Beneath a parasite crust of sheds and shops an old 
 Eoman amphitheatre, the largest and best preserved 
 after those of Msmes and Eome, uplifts its vigorous 
 cui'ves. Lately it contained fifty thousand spectators. 
 When it possessed its wooden galleries I suppose it 
 might have held seventy thousand ; there was room 
 enough for the entire population of the place. In 
 structure and in use the amphitheatre is the peculiar 
 sign of Roman genius. Its enormous stones, here six 
 feet long and three feet wide, its gigantic round arches, 
 its stories of arcades one supporting the other, are 
 capable, if left to themselves, of enduring to the day of 
 judgment. Ai'chitecture, thus understood, possesses 
 the solidity of a natural production. This edifice, seen 
 from above, looks like an extinct crater. If one desires 
 to build for eternity it must be in this fashion. On the 
 other hand, however, this monument of grandiose com- 
 mon sense is an institution of permanent murder. We 
 know that it steadily afforded wounds and death as a 
 spectacle to the citizens ; that, on the election of a 
 duumvir or an aedile, this bloody sport formed the prin- 
 cipal interest and the prime occupation of a municipal 
 city ; that the candidates and the magistrates multi- 
 plied them at their own cost to win popular favor ; that 
 benefactors of the city bequeathed vast sums to the 
 curia to perpetuate it ; that, in a paltry town hke Pom- 
 peii, a grateful duumvir caused thirty-five pairs of 
 gladiators to contend at one representation ; that a 
 polished, learned and humane man attended these 
 massacres as we of to-day attend a play ; that this di- 
 version was regular, universal, authorized and fashion- 
 able and that people resorted to the amphitheatre as 
 we now resort to the playhouse, the club or the cafe. 
 A species of being is there encountered with which we 
 are no longer familiar, that of the pagan reared in the 
 
330 LOMBAKDT. 
 
 gymnasium and on the battle-field, that is to say, ac- 
 customed to cultivating his body and to conquering 
 men, pushing to extremes his admirable physical and 
 militant institutions and, traversing the activity of the 
 palestrum and of civic heroism, ending in the indolence 
 of the baths and in the ferocities of the circus. Every 
 civilization has its own degeneracy as well as its own 
 vitalizing forces. For us christians, spiritualists, who 
 preach peace and cultivate our understanding, we have 
 the miseries of a cerebral and bourgeois existence, the 
 enervation of the muscles, the excitement of the brain, 
 small rooms on the fourth story, our sedentary and ar- 
 tificial habits, our saloons and our theatres. 
 
 This amphitheatre is simply a relic : traces of Eome 
 are scant in the north of Italy ; the originality and the 
 interest of the place consist of its mediaeval monu- 
 ments. The impression it makes on the mind is an 
 odd one, because the Italian mediaeval epoch is mixed 
 and ambiguous. Most of the churches, Santa-Anasta- 
 sia, San Fermo-Maggiore, the Duomo, San Zenone, are 
 of a peculiar style called Lombard, intermediary between 
 the Italian and the Gothic styles, as if the Latin and 
 the German artist had met in order to oppose and har- 
 monize their ideas in the same edifice. But the work 
 is genuine ; in every monument of a primitive era we 
 realize the lively invention of a budding spirit. Among 
 these diverse churches the Duomo may be taken as the 
 type ; this edifice, like the old basilicas, is a house sur- 
 mounted by a smaller one and both presenting a gable 
 frontage. We recognize the antique temple raised for 
 the purpose of supporting another on the top of it. 
 Straight lines ascend in pairs, parallel as in later archi- 
 tecture, in order to be capped with angles. These 
 lines, however, are more extended, and the angles are 
 sharper than in the latin architecture ; five superposed 
 belfries render them still more attenuated. The new 
 spirit evidently appreciates less a solid posture than a 
 
VEEONA. 331 
 
 bold flight ; the old forms are reduced by it and con- 
 verted to new uses. The ranges of columns and the 
 two borderings of arcades let into the fa9ade are sim- 
 ply small ornaments, the vestiges of an abandoned art, 
 like the rudimentary bones of the arm in the whale, or 
 in the dolphin. On all sides we detect the ambiguous 
 spirit of the twelfth century, the remains of Roman 
 tradition, the bloom of a new invention, the elegance 
 of an architecture still preserved and the gropings of 
 the new-born sculpture. A projecting porch repeats 
 the simple lines of the general arrangement and its 
 small columns, supported by griffins, rise above and 
 are joined into each other like sections of cordage. 
 This porch is original and charming ; but its crouching 
 figures and its groups around the Virgin are hydro- 
 cephalous monkeys. 
 
 Gothic forms prevail in the interior, not yet complete, 
 but indicated and already christian. I cannot get rid 
 of the idea that ogives, arcades and foliations are alone 
 capable of imparting mystic sublimity to a church ; if 
 they are lacking the church is not christian ; it becomes 
 so as soon as they appear. This one is already mourn- 
 fully grave like the first act of a tragedy. Clusters of 
 small columns combine in reddish pillars, ascend into 
 capitals bound with a triple crown of flowers, spread 
 out into arcades embroidered with twining wreaths and 
 finally end in the wall of the flank in a sort of terminal 
 tuft. On the flank the ogive of the chapel is enveloped 
 in a covering of leaves and complicated ornaments 
 joined together at the top in a spire and surmounted 
 by a statuette. Most of the figures have the grave 
 candor and the sincere and too marked expression of 
 the fifteenth century. A choir in the background, built 
 by San-Micheli, protrudes its belt of ionic columns 
 even into the nave. The various ages of the church 
 are thus shown in its various ornaments ; its structure, 
 however, and its grand forms still secure to the whole 
 
333 LOMBAKDY. 
 
 the sober simplicity and bright originality of primitive 
 invention, and there is pleasure in contemplating a 
 healthy architectural creation belonging to a distinct 
 species and found nowhere else. 
 
 On trying to define the ruling type in other churches 
 resembling this one we find the two superposed gables 
 of Pisa and Sienna and the pointed canopies which Pisa 
 and Sienna lack. This combination is unique : these 
 canopies, over full walls and elegant lines, almost black 
 and covered with mstj scales, bristle against the blue 
 sky with then- ferruginous points as if they were the 
 remains of so many fossil carcasses. Sometimes a bevy 
 of canopies crowd around the central cone or are perched 
 on all sides on the crests and on the angles of the roofs, 
 the ruddy tone of the bricks of which the edifice is built 
 adding to the singularity of their rough and deadened 
 forms. It is a unique growth like that of a pineapple 
 slowly elongated and incrusted with smoky ochre. It 
 is one that is peculiar to the country. Between the 
 Eoman arcade, now disappearing, and the Gothic ogive 
 just indicatmg itself, it gathered around it the sympa- 
 thies of men for two or three centuries. They discov- 
 ered it at the first step they made out of savage Hfe and 
 many are the traits which render visible the barbarity 
 from which they issued. The portal of Santa Anastasia 
 displa^^s heads one half as large as the body ; others 
 are without necks or have them dislocated ; almost all 
 are grotesque ; a Christ on the cross has the broken 
 and bent-back paws of a frog. — Centuries, however, in 
 their progress, dragged art out of its swaddling-clothes 
 and, in later chapels, the sculpture becomes adult. 
 Santa Anastasia is filled with figures of the fifteenth 
 century, occasionally a little clumsy, stiff and too real, 
 but so expressive that the perfection of the masters 
 appears languid alongside of their animated deformity. 
 In the choir a bush of thorns and large expanded flow- 
 ers, twenty-five feet high, envelop a tomb in which 
 
VEEONA. 333 
 
 stand rude figures of men-at-arms. In the Miniscalco 
 cliapel, amidst interlacings of elegant arabesques, you 
 see four standing statuettes placed in couples above 
 eacli other between the red columns supporting an 
 entablature : they are those of a young man, a some- 
 what meagTe, candid young girl, and two bald-headed 
 doctors roughly chiselled the whole similar to the 
 figures of Perugino. The chapel Pellegrini, wainscoted 
 entirely with terra-cotta, is a large sculptured picture 
 in compartments, w^here evangelical subjects unite and 
 separate with admu-able richness and originality of 
 imagination ; two files of single figures, each under an 
 ornamented ogive canopy, divide the various scenes, 
 each of wdiich is enclosed in a fi'ame of spiral columns 
 wdth acanthus capitals. In this graceful and overflow- 
 ing decoration, among these fancies half gothic half 
 greek, we find, along wdth the beautiful groupings of 
 the new art, the sin.cerest and simplest expressions, 
 virgins of infantile innocence and beaming beauty, 
 saintly women weeping with the touching abandonment 
 of genuine grief, noble, erect young forms displaying 
 the sentiment of human vitality with the sincerity of 
 the recent invention and a cuirassed St. Michael as spir- 
 ited and simple as an ancient ephebos. — Never w^as 
 sculpture more fecund, more spontaneous and, in my 
 opinion, more beautiful than in the fifteenth century. 
 
 We take a cab and drive to the end of the town, to 
 San Zenone, the most curious of these churches, begun 
 by a son of Charlemagne, restored by the German em- 
 peror Otho I., but belonging almost entirely to the 
 twelfth century.* Some portions, as, for instance, the 
 sculptures of a door, belong to the more ancient times ; 
 except at Pisa I have seen none so barbarous. The 
 Christ at the pillar looks like a bear mounting a tree ; 
 the judges, the executioners and the personages belong- 
 
 * The spire is of the year 1045. 
 
^^^ LOMBARDY. 
 
 ing to other biblical stories resemble the gross cari- 
 catures of clumsy Germans in their overcoats. In an- 
 other place Christ on his throne has no skull, the entire 
 face being absorbed by the chin ; the wondering, pro- 
 jecting eyes are those of a frog, while around him the 
 angels with their wings are bats with human heads. 
 The heads throughout are enormous, disproportionate 
 and pitiful ; below badly jointed limbs toss about float- 
 ing bellies. These figures all swim through the air on 
 different planes in the most insensate manner, as if the 
 sculptor or founder aimed to excite a laugh. To this 
 low level did art fall during the Carlovingian decadence 
 and the Hungarian invasions. — In the interior of the 
 cTiurch you follow the strange and whimsical gropings 
 of an experimental mind, catching glimpses of daylight 
 now and then from its obscure depths. The crypt, 
 belonging to the ninth century, low and lugubrious, is 
 a forest of columns crowned with shapeless figures ; 
 sculptures still more shapeless cover an altar. To this 
 damp cavern people resorted to pray at the saint's tomb 
 for the expulsion of devastators and of the yelling cav- 
 alry which, wherever it passed, left a desert behind it. 
 Higher up in the church, a curious altar is supported 
 by crouched brutes resembling lions ; from their bodies 
 of red marble spring four small columns of the same 
 material which, half way up, twine and interlace around 
 each other like serpents, and then, once knotted, resume 
 their rectilinear projection up to the corinthian capital. 
 Farther on Christ and his apostles in colored marble, 
 frescoes of the fourteenth century, a St. George with 
 his heraldic buckler, a Magdalen in drapery of her own 
 hair, range themselves along the wall, some lank and 
 grotesque like wooden dolls, others grave, enveloped in 
 the grand folds of their robes and with hieratic ele- 
 vation and austerity. How slow progress is, and how 
 many centuries are necessary for man to comprehend 
 the human figure ! 
 
VERONA. 
 
 335 
 
 The architecture, more simple, is more precocious. It 
 is satisfied with a few straight or curved lines, a few 
 symmetrical and clearly defined planes ; it does not 
 exact, like sculpture, knowledge of receding rotundi- 
 ties ^nd a study of the complications and reliefs of the 
 oval. Uncultivated natures confined to a few powerful 
 sentiments can be affected by and reveal themselves 
 through it ; it is perhaps their proper medium of ex- 
 pression. In half-barbarous ages indeed, in the times 
 of Philippe Augustus and Herodotus, it obtained its 
 original forms, while complete civilization, instead of 
 sustaining it and developing it like other arts has 
 rather impoverished or corrupted it. Within as with- 
 out, San Zenone is grand in character, austere and sim- 
 ple : we here realize the Eoman basilica making itself 
 Christian. The central nave rests on round columns 
 whose barbarous capitals, enveloped with foliage, 
 lions, dogs and serpents, sustain a line of circular ar- 
 cades ; on these arcades rises a grand naked wall bear- 
 ing the arch. Thus far the structure is Latin ; but the 
 nave, through its extreme height, fills the soul with a 
 religious emotion. Its curious ceiling consists of a 
 triple roof trellised with dark wood and inlaid with 
 little squares starred with white and gold, its super- 
 posed hollows extending along with a wild and unex- 
 pected fancy. Beneath it, the pavement, lower down, 
 connects the portal and the choir by high steps pro- 
 vided with balustrades, while the differences of level 
 break up and complicate all the lines. The capricious 
 imagination of the middle-ages begins to introduce 
 itself into the regularity of ancient architecture in 
 order to disturb planes, multiply forms and transpose 
 effects. 
 
 The same imagination reigns, but this time sovereign 
 and complete, within an iron railing situated near 
 Santa Maria I'Antica, and which is the most curious 
 monument in Verona. Here are the tombs of the an- 
 
836 
 
 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 cient sovereigns of the city, tlie Scaligers, who, either 
 by turns or always, tyrants and warriors, pohticians 
 and sages, assassins and exiles, great men and fratri- 
 cides, furnished, hke the princes of Ferrara, Milan and 
 Padua, examples of that powerful and immoral genius 
 peculiar to Italy and which Machiavelli has described 
 in his " Prince" or displayed in his Life of Castruccio. 
 The first five tombs display the simplicity and heavi- 
 ness of heroic times. It seems that man after having 
 combated, slain and founded demands only of the sep- 
 ulchre a spot for repose ; the hollow stone that receives 
 his bones is as solid and worn as the iron armor which 
 protected his flesh. It consists of an enormous and 
 massive tub formed out of a naked rock, a single red 
 block, and placed on three short supports of marble. 
 A single slab, thick and without ornaments, forms the 
 cover, as Hamlet says " the ponderous jaws" of the 
 tomb. This is a true funereal monument, a monstrous 
 rude coffer, built for eternity. 
 
 Out of this savage world, in which the ferocities of 
 Ecclin and his destroyers were let loose, an art appears. 
 Dante and Petrarch were welcomed at this court, now 
 learned and magnificent ; the Gothic style, which from 
 the mountain- tops descends on Milan, and on all sides 
 impregnates Italian architecture, displays itself here 
 pure and complete in the monuments of its latest lords. 
 Two of these sepulchres, especially that of Cane Signo- 
 rio (1375) are as precious in their way as the cathedrals 
 of Milan and Assisi. The rich and delicate comming- 
 ling of twining, excavated and sharp forms, the trans- 
 formation of dull matter into a filagree of lace, into the 
 multiple and the complex, is the aspiration of this new 
 taste. At the loot of the memorial small columns with 
 curious capitals connect through a sort of armorial turban 
 in order to bear on a platform the storied tomb and 
 the sleeping statue of the dead. From this basis springs 
 a circle of other small columns whose arcades laced 
 
VERONA. 337 
 
 with trefoils, join in a dome crowned witli foliated lan- 
 terns and with canopies tapering ujDward and cluster- 
 ing together like the vegetation of thorns. On the sum- 
 mit, Cane Signorio, seated on his horse, seems the ter- 
 minal statue of a rich specimen of the jeweller's art. 
 Processions of small sculptured figures deck the tomb. 
 Six statuettes in armor, with bare heads, cover the 
 edges of the platform, and each of the niches of the 
 second story contains its figure of an angel. This 
 crowd of figures and this efflorescence rise p3Tamidi- 
 cally like a bouquet in a vase while the sky shines 
 through the infinite interstices of the scaffolding. In 
 order to complete the impression each tomb by itself, 
 as well as the entire enclosure, is shut in by one of 
 those railings, so original and so intricate, in which 
 mediaeval art delighted, a sort of thread of arabesques 
 wrought with four-leafed trefoils, united with halberd 
 irons and crowned with triple-pointed thorn-leaves. It 
 is to this side, toward the prodigality and interlacing 
 of light capricious forms, that the imagination wholly 
 turned. Figures, in fact, although well-proportioned, 
 display nothing of the ideal. Cane is simply a laborious- 
 ly exercised warrior. The statuettes in armor have 
 that air of a gi^ave sacristan so frequent in mediaeval 
 sculptures. The Yirgin, sculptured in relief on the tomb, 
 is a simple, gross, stolid peasant-woman and the infant 
 Christ has the big head, lank limbs and protuberant 
 belly of actual bantlings that do nothing else but suck, 
 sleep and cry. The artist knows only how to copy the 
 human form servilely and dolefully ; his invention ex- 
 pends itself in other directions. I was thinking by 
 contrast of a double Renaissance tomb which I had 
 just seen in the sacristy of San-Fermo-Maggiore, that 
 of Jerome Turriano, so simple, so elegant, so richly 
 and so healthily imaginative ; where small fluted col- 
 umns form a medium space between medium masses, 
 where the whiteness of marble is enhanced by the dim- 
 
 15 
 
338 LOMBARDY. 
 
 mer tints of bronze, where sphinxes, fawns and nymphs 
 in bas-relief caper amidst the flowers. One cannot 
 fail to realize that mediaeval art so creative and so vig- 
 orous, has something of the strained and divergent. 
 The truth is it is a morbid art : a cheerful and healthy 
 mind could not accommodate itself to such a minute, 
 intricate and fragile ornamentation which seems so inca- 
 pable of self-endurance and which demands a sheath to 
 protect it. We require monuments to be solidly based 
 and to have a consistency of their own. The imagina- 
 tion tires at being always kept suspended in the air, 
 diverted in its flight, caught by sharp angles and perched 
 on the points of needles. We retrace our steps to see 
 the Piazza dei Signori, where there is a charming 
 little Renaissance palace, resting on a portico of arcades 
 and Corinthian columns. We enjoy the finesse of its 
 small columns and the elegant rotundities of its balus- 
 trades. The eyes wander over the sculptures twining 
 around the coins and cornices of the windows ; branches 
 loaded with leaves, stately flowers springing out of 
 an amphora, Roman cuirasses, cornucopias, medallions, 
 every form and every emblem an artist would like to 
 surround himself with in order to make of his life a 
 fete. We contemplate the two statues in the shell 
 niches, a Virgin like the Madonna of the " Last Judg- 
 ment," gathering herself up and turning her shoulder 
 with all the charm of Florentine finesse. I sup- 
 pose that this constitutes the pleasure of travelling; 
 one's ideas are reconsidered and confirmed and de- 
 veloped and constantly corrected according as new 
 cities present to the mind new aspects of the same 
 objects. 
 
 Still one becomes weary. I saw too many pictures 
 at Yenice to dwell on those in this place. There is, how- 
 ever, a Pinacotheca at the Palazzo Pompeii filled with 
 the works of the Veronese masters. A number of the 
 
VALUE OF COSTUME. od» 
 
 early painters, Falconetto, Turodi, Crivelli, are ranged 
 in the order of tlieir epoch. One of them, Paolo Mo- 
 rando, who died in 1522, fills an entire room with his 
 works, somewhat stiff, realistic and finished to excess, 
 in which, among the figures copied from Hfe, are beauti- 
 ful angels crowned with laurels and announcing the 
 advent of ideal form, whilst a glow of color and skilful 
 gradations of tints indicate Venetian taste. All these 
 painters should be studied ; they are the beginnings of 
 a local flora ; — but there are days when every effort to 
 fix the attention is disagreeable, when one is only capa- 
 ble of enjoying himself. One turns away from the pre- 
 cursors for two or three of the pictures by the masters. 
 There is one by Bonifazio, representing the rendition 
 of Yerona to the Doge, brilliant and decorative, in 
 which the freest imitation of actual life is enlivened and 
 embellished with every magnificence of color. Seignors 
 in the costumes of the time of Francis I., in lustrous 
 white silk and decked with flowers, appear on one side 
 of the Doge, whilst on the other sit the councillors in 
 the waving pomp of their grand red robes. Costume, in 
 those days, is so fine that it alone affords material for 
 pictures ; in every epoch it is the most spontaneous and 
 most significant of the works of art ; for it indicates the 
 way in which man comprehends the beautiful and how 
 he desires to adorn his life ; rely upon it that if it is not 
 picturesque, picturesque tastes are wanting. When peo- 
 ple truly love pictures they begin to depict their own per- 
 sons ; this is why the age of dress-coats and black trow- 
 sers is poorly qualified for the arts of design. Compare 
 our vestments of a respectable undertaker or of a practi- 
 cal engineer to the superb portrait of Pasio Guariento by 
 Paul Veronese (1556). He stands in steel armor rayed 
 with black lines and damasked with gold. His casque, 
 gauntlets and lance are by his side. He is a man of 
 action, vaHant and gay, although quite old ; his beard 
 
340 LOMBAKDY. 
 
 is gray, but his cheeks possess the somewhat yinous 
 tints of jovial habits. His mihtarj pomp and his sim- 
 ple expression harmonize ; everything about the man 
 holds together, within and without ; he fashions his 
 own costume, furniture and architecture, his entire out- 
 side decoration according to his inward necessities ; 
 but in the long-run the decoration reacts on him. I am 
 satisfied that an armor hke this would convert any 
 man into a heroic ox. To fight well, to drink well and 
 dine well and to display himself superbly on horseback 
 was all he cared to do. A cavalier's life and pic- 
 turesque sensations absorbed him entirely ; he did not, 
 like us closet-folks, require a learned subtle psychology ; 
 it would have set him yawning ; he was himself too 
 slightly comphcated to incline to our analyses. On ac- 
 count of this the central art of the century is not litera- 
 ture but painting. — In this art Veronese, like Van Dyck, 
 reaches that final moment when primitive impulse and 
 energy begin to be tempered by the breath of worldly 
 ease and dignity. People still sometimes wear the 
 great sword but use the rapier ; they don at need the 
 soHd battle-armor but more willingly deck themselves 
 with the rich pourpoint and the laces of the court ; a 
 gentlemanly elegance comes to transform and brighten 
 the ancient energy of the soldier. The Venetian Hke 
 the Fleming paints that noble and poetic society which, 
 placed on the confines of the feudal and the modern 
 ages, preserves the seigneurial spirit without maintain- 
 ing gothic rudeness and attains to the urbanity of the 
 palace without falling into the insipidity of drawing- 
 room poKteness. By the side of Titian, Giorgione and 
 Tintoretto, Veronese seems a delicate cavalier amongst 
 robust plebeians. Here, in a fresco representing Music, 
 the heads of the women possess charming sweetness ; 
 his voluptuousness is aristocratic, and often refined ; 
 the diversion of fetes, the variety and the brilliancy of 
 a smiling seducing beauty more readily respond to his 
 
VERONESE. 341 
 
 mind than the force and simplicity of bodies and of 
 athletic actions. He himself saluted Titian with respect 
 *' as the father of art," while Titian, on the square of 
 San-Marco, affectionately embraced him, recognizing in 
 him the head of a new generation. 
 
CHAPTEK II. 
 
 LAGO DI GAEDA.— MILAN.— STEEETS AND CHAEACTERS.— THE CATHE- 
 • DEAL.— MYSTIC FIGUEES AKD VEGETAL ANALOGIES OF THE 
 GOTHIC— SAN AMBEOGIO. 
 
 Neak Desenzano we come in sight of the Lago di 
 Garda. It is quite blue, of that strange blue peculiar 
 to rocky depths ; rugged mountains, marbled with ght- 
 tering snow, enclose it within their curves and advance 
 their promontories into the middle of the lake. With 
 all their asperities thej look genial ; an azure veil, as 
 aerial and delicate as the finest gauze, envelops their 
 nudity and tempers their rudeness. After leaving Ye- 
 rona they are visible only through this veil. This soft 
 azure occupies the half of space ; the rest is a tender 
 and charming green prairie, rendered still softer by the 
 faint yellow tinge overspreading the spring growth with 
 the freshness of new being. / 
 
 At Desenzano the train stops on the very margin of 
 the lake. Its lustrous slaty surface buries itself between 
 two long rocky shores seeming to be the embossed and 
 jagged sides of a fantastic river. It forms, indeed, the 
 marble ewer into which, before they decline, the Alps 
 collects and retains its springs. On the projections of 
 this shore we see villages, churches and ancient fort- 
 resses extending down into the water, and, in the 
 background, a loftier wall lifting into the sky its snowy 
 fringe silvered with sunlight. Nothing can be gayer 
 and nobler. From the lake to the firmament all these 
 azure tints melt into each other graduated by diversi- 
 ties of distance and reminding one of the blue rocky 
 landscapes which Leonardo gives in the backgrounds 
 of his pictures. ^ 
 
MILAN. 343 
 
 The rest of the country as far as Milan is a vast 
 orchard replete with crops, artificial fields and fruit- 
 trees, where the mulberry, already quite green, rounds 
 its tops amidst the vines and where petty canals bear 
 life to the vegetation, so blooming and so prolific as to 
 suggest an idea of suj)er abundant prosperity ; but in 
 order to relieve this fertility of any vulgar or monoto- 
 nous aspect, the Alps rise on the right in the evening 
 glow, like a file of vast stationary clouds, v 
 
 Blilan, May 4. — One realizes that he is in a rich and 
 gay land. The city is grand and even luxurious with 
 its monumental gates and broad streets lined with 
 palaces, full of vehicles and lively without being fever- 
 ish like Paris or London. It is situated on a plain ; 
 the lakes, canals and river easily supply it with pro- 
 visions from the well-cultivated and generously pro- 
 ductive country. Its buildings are as pleasing as its 
 environs. You enter the waiting-rooms of a railroad 
 station ; you see between the mouldings and their 
 ornaments an azure ceiling full of floating clouds. The 
 cafes are well patronized ; ices and coffee cost four or 
 five sous ; an omnibus fare is two sous. Admission to 
 both of the operas is but one or two francs ; common 
 people and the women are quite numerous in the par- 
 terre. Many of the women are beautiful, and almost 
 all gay and good-humored ; they walk well, having a 
 spruce and attractive air ; with their lively ph3^siogno- 
 my, fine, cleanly chiselled head, and vibrating sonorous 
 accent they stand out instantaneously in bold relief. 
 Nothing can be prettier than the black veil serving as a 
 coiffure; a circle of silver bodkins placed around the 
 chignon forms a cro^^Ti. Stendhal, who lived here a 
 long time, says that this city is the land of good-nature 
 and pleasure : to regard labor and serious preoccupa- 
 tions as a load to be reduced as much as possible, to 
 enjoj^ themselves, to laugh, to go on country pic-nics, 
 to get in love and not in sighing fashion, such is the 
 
344 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 way in \vliic]i they regard life. I liave had two or three 
 interesting conversations, in this connection, A\ith my 
 travelling companions ; all of them terminated in the 
 same creed- One of these, half-bourgeois, another a 
 lawyer, each remarked to me : " Ho la sventura cVessere 
 ammogliato, — it is true I married my wife for love and 
 that she is pretty and prudent, but I have lost my 
 liberty." 
 
 A transient visitor like myself can have no opinion on 
 social matters ; he can only talk about monuments. 
 There are three conspicuous ones at Milan — the cathe- 
 dral and two picture galleries. 
 
 The cathedral, at the first sight, is bewildering. 
 Gothic art, transported entire into Italy at the close of 
 the middle ages," attains at once its triumph and its 
 extravagance. Never had it been seen so pointed, so 
 highly embroidered, so complex, so overcharged, so 
 strongly resembling a piece of jewelry ; and as, instead 
 of coarse and lifeless stone, it here takes for its material 
 the beautiful lustrous Italian marble, it becomes a pure 
 chased gem as precious through its substance as through 
 the labor bestowed on it. The whole church seems to 
 be a colossal and magnificent crystallization, so splen- 
 didly do its forest of sj)ires, its intersections of mould- 
 ings, its population of statues, its fringes of fretted, 
 hollowed, embroidered and open marblework, ascend in 
 multiple and interminable bright forms against the 
 pure blue sky. Truly is it the mystic candelabra of 
 visions and legends, with a hundred thousand branches 
 bristling and overflowing with sorrowing thorns and 
 ecstatic roses, with angels, virgins, and martyrs upon 
 every flower and on every thorn, with infinite myriads 
 of the triumphant Church springing from the ground 
 pyramidically even into the azure, with its millions of 
 blended and vibrating voices mounting upward in a 
 
 * Beffun in 1386. Its architects were Germaus and Frenchmen. 
 
THE CATHEDRAL. 345 
 
 single shout, hosannah ! Moved by sucli sentiments we 
 quicHy comprehend why architecture violated the 
 ordinary conditions of matter and of its endurance. It 
 no longer has an end of its own ; little does it care 
 whether it be a soHd or a fragile construction ; it is not 
 a shelter but an expression ; it does not concern itself 
 with present fragility nor with the restorations of the 
 future ; it is born of a sublime frenzy and constitutes 
 a sublime frenzy ; so much the worse for the stone that 
 disintegrates and for generations that are to commence 
 the work anew. The object is to manifest an intense 
 reverie and a unique transport ; a certain moment in 
 life is worth all the rest of hfe put together. The 
 mystic philosophers of the esivlj centuries sacrificed 
 everything to the hope of once or twice transcending in 
 the course of so many long years the limits of human 
 existence and of being translated for an instant up to 
 the ineffable One, the source of the universe. 
 
 We enter, and the impression deepens. "What a 
 difference between the religious power of such a church 
 and that of St. Peter's at Rome ! One exclaims to him- 
 self, this is the true christian temple ! Four rows of 
 enormous eight-sided pillars, close together, seem like 
 a serried hedge of gigantic oaks. Their strange capi- 
 tals, bristling with a fantastic vegetation of pinnacles, 
 canopies, foliated niches and statues, are like venerable 
 trunks crowned wdth delicate and pendent mosses. 
 They spread out in great branches meeting in the vault 
 overhead, the intervals of the arches being filled with 
 an inextricable network of foliage, thorny sprigs and 
 light branches, twining and intertwining, and figuring 
 the aerial dome of a mighty forest. As in a great wood, 
 the lateral aisles are almost equal in height to that of 
 the centre, and, on all sides, at equal distances apart, 
 one sees ascending around him the secular colonnades. 
 Here truly is the ancient germanic forest, as if a 
 reminiscence of the religious groves of Irmensul. Light 
 
 15* 
 
346 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 pours in transformed by green, yellow and purple 
 panes, as if tlirougii the red and orange tints of 
 autumnal leaves. This, certainly, is a complete archi- 
 tecture like that of Greece, having, like that of Greece, 
 its root in vegetable forms. The Greek takes the trunk 
 of the tree, dressed, for his type ; the German the en- 
 tire tree with all its leaves and branches. True archi- 
 tecture, perhaps, always springs out of vegetal nature, 
 and each zone may have its own edifices as well as 
 plants; in this way oriental architectures might be 
 comprehended, — the vague idea of the slender palm 
 and of its bouquet of leaves with the Arabs, and the 
 vague idea of the colossal, prolific, dilated and brist- 
 ling vegetation of India. In any event I have never 
 seen a church in which the aspect of northern forests 
 was more striking, or where one more involuntarily 
 imagines long alleys of trunks terminating in glimpses 
 of daylight, curved branches meeting in acute angles, 
 domes of irregular and commingling foliage, universal 
 shade scattered with lights through colored and di- 
 aphanous leaves. Sometimes a section of yellow panes, 
 through which the sun darts, launches into the obscu- 
 rity its shower of rays and a portion of the nave glows 
 like a luminous glade. A vast rosace behind the choir, 
 a window with tortuous branchings above the entrance, 
 shimmer with the tints of amethyst, ruby, emerald and 
 topaz like leafy labyrinths in which lights from above 
 break in and diffuse themselves in shifting radiance. 
 Near the sacristy a small door-top, fastened against the 
 wall, exposes an infinity of intersecting mouldings sim- 
 ilar to the delicate meshes of some marvellous twining 
 and climbing plant. A day might be passed here as in 
 a forest, the mind as calm and as occupied in the 
 presence of grandeurs as solemn as those of nature, 
 before caprices as fascinating, amidst the same inter- 
 mingling of sublime monotony and inexhaustible 
 fecundity, before contrasts and metamorphoses of light 
 
THE CATHEDKAL. 347 
 
 as rich and as unexpected. A mystic reverie, combined 
 with a fresh sentiment of northern nature, such is the 
 source of gothic architecture. 
 
 At the second look one feels the exaggerations and 
 the incongruities. The gothic is of the late epoch and 
 is inferior to that of Assisi ; outside, especially, the 
 grand lines disappear under the ornamentation. You 
 see nothing but pinnacles and statues. Many of these 
 statues are of the seventeenth century, sentimental and 
 gesticulating, in the taste of Bernini ; the main windows 
 of the fagade bear the imprint of the Renaissance and 
 constitute a blemish. In the interior St. Charles Bor- 
 romeo and his successors have in several places plas- 
 tered it with the affectations of the decadence. A 
 monument like this transcends man's forces ; five hun- 
 dred years of labor has been bestowed on it, and it is 
 not finished yet. When a work requires so long a 
 time for its completion the inevitable revolutions of the 
 mental state leave on it their discordant traces : here 
 appears that true characteristic of the middle ages, the 
 disjDroportion between desire and power. Criticism, 
 however, before such a work is out of place. One 
 drives it from his mind like an intruder ; it remains on 
 the threshold and does not soon attempt to re-enter. 
 The eyes of their own accord discard ,ugly features ; in 
 order to prolong their pleasure they fix themselves on 
 some of the tombs of the gi'eat century, that of Cardi- 
 nal Carraciulo (1538) and especially, before the Chapel 
 of the Presentation, that of the sculptor Bambaja, an 
 unknown man of the time of Michael Angelo. The 
 diminutive Virgin is ascending a flight of steps amongst 
 superb, erect forms of men and women ; one meagre 
 old man is looking at her, and his bony head, in its 
 enormous frizzled beard, has a spirited and wild aspect ; 
 a woman on the left, between the columns, has the ani- 
 mated beauty of the most blooming youth. Farther 
 on, another Virgin between two female saints is a mas- 
 
348 
 
 LOMBAKDY. 
 
 terpiece of simplicity and force. We do not know and 
 cannot fully estimate the genius of the Renaissance ; 
 Italy has only exported, or allowed to be taken, frag- 
 ments of its work ; books have popularized a few 
 names ; but, for the sake of abridgment, others have 
 been omitted. Below, and by the side of great known 
 names, is a multitude of others equal to them. 
 
 Another celebrated church is cited, that of San- 
 Ambrogio, founded in the fourth century by St. Ambrose 
 and completed or restored later in the Roman style, 
 supplied with gothic arches toward the year 1300 and 
 strewn with divers bits — doors, pulpit and altar decora- 
 tions — during the intermediary ages. An oblong court 
 precedes it through a double portico. A large square 
 tower flanks it -^dth its sombre and reddened mass. 
 Remnants of sculpture plastered on the wall render the 
 porticoes a sort of defaced and incoherent memorial. 
 The old edifice itself raises its fretted gable upon a 
 double story of arcades. The portal is peculiar, being 
 striped and mottled with fine stone ornaments, consist- 
 ing of networks of thread, rosaces, and of small 
 squares filled with foliage ; on the columns we see 
 crosses, heads and bodies of animals, a decoration of 
 an unknown species."^ These works of the darkest cen- 
 turies of the middle ages always, after the first repulsion, 
 leave a powerful impression. We feel in them, as in the 
 saints' legends accumulated from the seventh to the tenth 
 centuries, the bewilderment of an appalled understand- 
 ing, the awkwardness of clumsy hands, the alteration and 
 discordance of decrepit faculties, the gropings of a child- 
 ish and senile intellect which has forgotten everything 
 and as yet learned nothing new, its dolorous and semi- 
 idiotic uneasiness before vaguely conceived forms, its 
 impotent effort to stammer forth an anxious thought, 
 
 *■ Compare the cloister of St. Tropliime at Aries, one of the most 
 cmious and most perfect of mediaeval monuments. 
 
SAN AMBROGIO. o49 
 
 its first tottering steps in a profound cave where all is 
 confusion and vacHlation in the pallid rajs of da3'liglit. 
 In the interior heavy pillars, composed of a mass of 
 columns, support on their barbaric capitals a file of 
 round arcades and low arches, and, at the far end, in 
 the apsis, are meagre bjzantine figures gleaming on 
 gold. Under the pulpit a tomb, supposed to be that of 
 Stilicon, is sculptured with coarse hunting-scenes where 
 beasts of uncertain species, it may be dogs or croco- 
 diles, are pursuing and biting each other; the decline 
 of art is not greater than in the monument of Placidia 
 at Ravenna. We look up and we see in the sculptures 
 of the pulpit the first dawn of the Renaissance. It is 
 a work of the twelfth century, a sort of long box rest- 
 ing on columns like the pulpits of Nicholas of Pisa. 
 The figures sculptured on it represent the Last Supper ; 
 eleven personages seen in front view and with their two 
 arms before them, all repeat the same posture; the 
 heads are real, and even carefully studied, but quite 
 bourgeois and vulgar. Between this early gleam of 
 life and the formless chaos of the lower sepulchre, six 
 centuries, perha23S, elapse ; — behold the time requisite 
 for iQcubation ! No document exposes better than works 
 of art the formations and metamorphoses of human 
 civilization. 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE LAST SUPPER OF LEONARDO DA VINCI.— CHARACTER OP HIS 
 PERSONAGES.— CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS GENIUS.— HIS SCHOOL.— 
 LUINL— THE BRERA MUSEE.— THE AMBROSIAN LEBRARY. 
 
 One church more is all that remains in my mind, 
 that of Santa-Maria delle Grazie, a large round tower 
 girdled by two galleries of small columns and resting 
 on a square mass ; it is not the church however which 
 one goes to see, but Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Sup- 
 per," painted on a wall of the refectory, and which, to 
 tell the truth, you do not see. Fifty years after its 
 completion it became a ruin. In the last century it was 
 entirely repainted, and, as it still scaled off, it was re- 
 stored ten years ago. What is there now of Leonardo 
 in this painting ? Less, perhaps, than in a master's car- 
 toon transferred to canvas by his mediocre pupils. In 
 one face, that of the Apostle Andrew,"^ the wry mouth 
 is evidently spoilt. Only the general idea of the mas- 
 ter can be seized ; its delicacies have disappeared. 
 Still, among other traits, one can see without much 
 trouble that the celebrated engraving by Morghen 
 represents Christ as more melancholy and more spirit- 
 ual, f The Christ of Leonardo has a sweet countenance 
 but large, ample and divine ; his aim was not to portray 
 a sad and tender dreamer but a type of humanity. In 
 like manner the apostles with their strongly-marked 
 features and speaking expressions are vigorous Italians 
 whose excitable passions lead to pantomime. The pic- 
 ture of Leonardo, like those of Raphael in the Vatican, 
 
 * The third figure, beginning at the left. 
 
 f Compare contemporary copies, those of Marco d'Oggione at the 
 Brera, and that in the Louvre. 
 
LEONARDO DA VINCI. ' 351 
 
 depicted, probably, beautiful physical life as understood 
 in the Renaissance. But he added to it a peculiarity 
 of his own, the expression of different temperaments 
 patiently studied and sudden emotions arrested in 
 their flight. On this account he must have devoted a 
 couple of hours daily to the low class of the Borgo in 
 order to give to his Judas the head of a sufficiently vile 
 and vigorous rogue. 
 
 Here, at Milan, he thought and lived the longest. 
 His principal works should be here, but they have 
 either been carried away or have perished. His great 
 equestrian model in bronze, intended to commemorate 
 the Duke Sforza, was cut to pieces by some gascon 
 cross-bowmen. Nothing of his now remains but some 
 manuscripts and a few sketches and studies. And yet, 
 reduced as his work is, there is no other that is more 
 striking. In the leading traits of his genius he is 
 modern. There is in the Brera gallery by him a female 
 head in red chalk which in depth and delicacy of ex- 
 pression sui'passes the most perfect of pictures. It is 
 not beauty alone he seeks, but rather individual origi- 
 nality ; there is a moral personality and a delicacy of 
 soul in his figures, the powerful emotion of the inner 
 life slightly hollowing the cheeks and depressing the 
 eyes. Two other studies in the Ambrosian library 
 (Nos. 177, 178), especially that of a young female with 
 drooping eyelids, are incomparable masterpieces. The 
 nose and lips are not perfectly regular ; form alone does 
 not occupy him ; the interior seems much more im- 
 portant to him than the exterior. Under this exterior 
 lives a real, but superior, soul endowed wdth faculties 
 and passions still slumbering, whose unlimited powder 
 glows in repose by the force of the maiden gaze, by the 
 divine form of the brow and by the fulness and ampli- 
 tude of the head superbly crowned with hair such as 
 one never beholds. On examining his book of drawings 
 in the Louvre, and calling to mind favorite figures in 
 
353 
 
 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 his authentic pictures, on reading the details of his life 
 and character one perceives therein the same inward 
 strife. The world, perhaps, contains no example of a 
 genius so universal, so creative, so incapable of self- 
 contentment, so athirst for the infinite, so naturally 
 refined, so far in advance of his own and of subsequent 
 ages. His countenances express incredible sensibility 
 and mental power; they overflow with unexpressed 
 ideas and emotions. Michael Angelo's personages 
 alongside of his are simply heroic athletes ; Raphael's 
 virgins are only placid children whose sleeping souls 
 have not yet lived. His personages feel and thmk 
 through every line and trait of their physiognomy ; 
 some time is necessary in order to enter into com- 
 munion with them : not that their sentiment is too 
 slightly marked, on the contrary, it emerges from its 
 whole investiture, but it is too subtle, too complicated, 
 too far above and bej^ond the ordinary, too unfathom- 
 able and inexplicable. Their immobility and silence 
 lead one to divine two or three latent thoughts, and still 
 others concealed behind the most remote ; we have a 
 confused glimpse of their inner and secret world like an 
 unknown delicate vegetation at the bottom of trans- 
 parent waters. Their mysterious smile moves and 
 disturbs one vaguely ; skeptical, epicurean, licentious, 
 exquisitely tender, ardent or sad, what aspirations, 
 what curiosities, how many disappointments still re- 
 main to be discovered ! Occasionally among spirited 
 young athletes, like Grecian gods, we find some ambigu- 
 ous adolescent with a feminine body, slender and twin- 
 ing with voluptuous coquetry like the hermaphrodites 
 of the imperial epoch, and who seem, like them, to 
 announce a more advanced, less healthy, almost morbid 
 art, so eager for perfection and insatiable of happiness 
 that, not content with endowing man with strength and 
 woman with delicacy, it singularly confounds together 
 and multiplies the beauty of both sexes, losing itself in 
 
LEONARDO DA VINCI. 353 
 
 tlie reyeries and in the researches of ages of decadence 
 and immorality. One goes far in pushing to extremes 
 the craving for exquisite and deep emotions. Many 
 men of this epoch, and notably this one, after repeated 
 excursions through all the sciences, arts and pleasures, 
 bring back from their sojourn in the midst of all ob- 
 jects I know not what of surfeit, of resignation and of 
 sorrow. They appear to us under these various aspects 
 without wishing to be wholly abandoned. They halt 
 before us ^vitll a semi-ironical and benevolent smile 
 somewhat veiled. However expressive the painting 
 may be it reveals nothing of their interior but a com- 
 placent grace and superior genius ; it is only later, and 
 through reflection, that we distinguish in the sunken 
 orbits, in the drooping eyelids, in the faintly furrowed 
 cheeks the infinite exigencies and mute anguish of an 
 over-refined, nervous and prolific nature, the languor of 
 exhausted felicities and the lassitude of insatiate desire. 
 No artist has maintained so long and so complete an 
 ascendancy over contemporary artists. Melzi, Salaino, 
 Salario, Marco d'Oggione, Cesare da Cesto, Guadenzio 
 Ferrari, Beltrafiio, Luini,* all proportionately to and in 
 view of their faculties, remained true to the venerated 
 and beloved master whose voice they had heard or 
 whose traditions they had gathered ; and we find here 
 in their works the developments of the thought which 
 his too rare productions have not wholly brought to 
 light. They repeat his figures ; in the Ambrosian 
 library some of Luini's personages, — a female head, a 
 small St. John kneeling with the infant Jesus against 
 the Virgin, especially a Holy Family — seem to be de- 
 signed or dictated by the master. They are much more 
 delicate souls, much more capable of refined and power- 
 ful emotions than the simply ideal figures of the " School 
 
 * Rio, Histoire de VArt cliretien, Vol. III., Cli. XVI. It is uot certain 
 that Luini was directly a pupil of Leonardo. 
 
854 
 
 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 of Athens ;" "^ no converse could be maintained with 
 Haphael's personages ; they would at most utter two 
 or three words in. a grave and melodious voice ; one 
 would admire but not become enamored of them ; the 
 sovereign and penetrating charm emanating from those 
 of Leonardo and his pupil would not be realized. There 
 is little flesh, for flesh denotes carnal life and indicates 
 excessive nourishment ; the whole physiognomy lies in 
 the features ; these are strongly marked, although deli- 
 cate, so that through all its lineaments the countenance 
 feels and thinks ; the chin is hollowed and often point- 
 ed ; depressions and projections break the sculptural 
 uniformity and exclude the idea of luxuriant health. 
 The strange and indefinable smile of Monna Lisa 
 gleams on her motionless lips. A floating penumbra, 
 an intense and deep yellow hue, envelops the figures 
 with its shadowiness and mystery ; at times the grace 
 of vanishing contours and the luminous softness of in- 
 fantile flesh seem to indicate the hand of Correggio.t 
 The fulness of open daylight here would be discordant ; 
 tender and dying tones, mellowness of light and shade, 
 the soothing caress of a wandering and refreshing 
 breeze are essential in order not to disturb such deli- 
 cate bodies and such sensitive natures. Luini, in this 
 particular, goes even beyond Leonardo. If he impairs, 
 he softens him, if he has not, like him, the elevation 
 and superiority " of another Hermes or of another 
 Prometheus" J he attains to a still more feminine and 
 more affecting finish. Even this is not enough ; he 
 seeks elsewhere and strives to add to the spirit of his 
 first the stjde of more modern masters. As to his fres- 
 coes one would suppose that he had studied in Florence. 
 In one of the lower halls of the Ambrosian library his 
 
 * The cartoon of this picture is placed opposite, 
 f No. 105, without the name of any artist. Luini was contempo- 
 rary with and almost a townsman of Correggio. 
 X Lomazzo. 
 
LUDsI. 355 
 
 Christ crowned witli thorns is scourged by the execu- 
 tioners ; a large curtain and four cokimns encircle the 
 scene of suffering ; on each side, in symmetrical order, 
 are two angels and three executioners ; in the distance 
 is seen one of the disciples with the two Marys ; on the 
 two flanks of the picture, a file of pious, kneeling alms- 
 receivers in black robes, cause, through their realistic 
 figures, the rhythmic attitudes and ideal forms of this 
 evangelical event to be still better felt. In like manner, 
 at the entrance of the Brera gallery, the twenty frescoes 
 which, for the most part, represent the various stories 
 of the Virgin, have the faintness of color, the simple 
 expression and the serene nobleness of the figures of 
 the Vatican. At one time it is a large Virgin accompa- 
 nied by an aged man in a green mantle and by a young 
 woman in a golden-yellow robe, and, at their feet, on 
 the steps, a little angel who, with legs stretched apart, 
 tunes his cithern with the motionless pose and the 
 harmonious lines of the " Parnassus," or of the " Dis- 
 pute of the Holy Sacrament." At another time, in the 
 " Nativity of the Virgin," it is a couple of nimble young 
 girls fetching water, and two aged women, so beautiful 
 and so grave, that one imagines in looking at them, 
 the corresponding scenes painted by Andrea del Sarto 
 in the portico of Santa- Annunziata. Luini here seems 
 to have adopted the precepts of the pure and learned 
 school in which Raphael was formed, the perfection and 
 moderation of which are best represented by the Frate 
 and Andrea del Sarto ; the school which, founded by 
 the goldsmiths, always subordinated expression and 
 color to drawing ; which placed beauty in the dispo- 
 sition of lines, and which, in the sobriety, elevation and 
 judiciousness of its mind was the Athens of Italy. But 
 here and there the form of a head, a delicate chin, large 
 eyes still more enlarged by the arch of the eyebrow, 
 some adorable infantile form, an air of intelligence, a 
 more subtle charm, recalls Leonardo. The three great 
 
356 
 
 LOMBARDY. 
 
 Italian artists matured at Florence have all added 
 something to paganism and to the Florentine Atticism, 
 — the pious ingeniousness of Raphael brought by him 
 from religious Umbria ; the tragic energy which Michael 
 Angelo found in his own wrestling soul ; the exquisite 
 and pensive superiority the example of which Leonardo 
 bequeathed to his Lombard pupils. 
 
 Two galleries more contain together six or seven 
 hundred pictures, and the only prudent course for a 
 man to pursue is to keep silent about them. I have 
 only noted five or six of them, and first, the " Marriage 
 of the Yirgin" by Baphael. He was twenty-one years 
 old and copied, with a few alterations, a picture by 
 Perugino which is in the Musee at Caen. It is an au- 
 roral ray, the early dawn of his invention. The color 
 is almost hard, and cut out in clean spots by dry con- 
 tours. The moral type of the virile figures is still but 
 indicated ; two youths and several young girls have the 
 same round head, the same small eyes, the same lamb- 
 like expression characteristic of choir-children or of 
 communicants. He scarcely dares to venture ; his 
 thought moves only in the twilight. But its virginal 
 poesy is perfect. A broad open space extends behind 
 the personages. In the background a rotund temple, 
 furnished with porticoes, profiles its regular lines on 
 the pure sky. The azure expands amply on all sides, 
 as in the country around Assisi and Perugia ; the distant 
 landscape, at first green, then blue, encircles the cere- 
 mony with its serenity. With a simplicity which recalls 
 hieratic compositions, the personages all stand in a row 
 in the foreground of the picture ; their two groups cor- 
 respond to each other on each side of the two spouses, 
 and the high-priest forms the centre. Amidst this gen- 
 eral repose of figures, of attitudes and of lines, the 
 Yirgin, modestly inclining, and with her eyes downcast, 
 half-hesitatingly advances her hand on which the priest 
 is about to place the marriage ring. She does not 
 
COEKEGGIO. 357 
 
 know what to do witli tlie other hand, and, with ador- 
 able artlessness, she presses it close against her mantle. 
 A light, diaphanous veil scarcely touches her exquisite 
 blonde hair ; an angel could not have placed it on her 
 with more becoming care and respect. She is, hoAv- 
 ever, large, healthy and beautiful like a rural maiden, 
 and near her a superb young woman in light red, 
 draped in a green mantle, turns around with the pride 
 of a goddess. Pagan beauty, the animated sentiment 
 of an active and agile body, the spirit and taste of the 
 Eenaissance, already peer out through monastic piety 
 and placidity. 
 
 The contrast is very great on contemplating the last 
 of the great painters of the Renaissance, Correggio and 
 his "Repose of the Virgin." The picture is signed Anto- 
 nius Laetus,^ and, although there is doubt that it is by 
 him, I venture to find it charming. Two young women, 
 the Virgin and the infant Jesus, are under a tree 
 almost black, in a sort of sombre relief which greatly 
 enhances the extraordinary brilliancy of the heads. 
 The straight and symmetrical lines have become wav- 
 ing and curved. Figures, tranquil and slumbering, 
 have abandoned sculptural regularity and noble sim- 
 plicity. Now their disturbed look bewilders and 
 excites ; their animation, their pride, their inno cence 
 remind one of the nervous vivacity of birds. Still 
 more winning and seductive than the Virgin is the 
 young woman in a yellow robe who is kneeling by her, 
 with a phial in her hand, among lights and half-lights 
 of marvellous delicacy and splendor ; a kind of infantile 
 sullenness imperceptibly swells her lip. After the 
 virile figures expressing the energy of intact passions it 
 remained to art, becoming exaggerated before declining, 
 and to souls becoming over-refined before becoming 
 relaxed, the cult of feminine grace, at one time sport- 
 
 * Loetus the latin form of Allegri. 
 
358 
 
 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 ive and pretty, at another genial and penetrating, 
 infinite in subtle and complex charms, alone capable of 
 absorbing hearts to which action was interdicted, ap- 
 pearing in Correggio like the softened glow of a flower 
 blooming too early and then fading, or like the extreme 
 maturity of a melting peach impregnated with evening 
 sunshine. 
 
 After him, the restoration of the Caracci does not 
 stay the decadence. These artists, so learned, so 
 ingenious, so painstaking, are either academic painters 
 or painters by system. If they still create it is out- 
 side of the proper field of painting, in moral expression. 
 They produce interesting or affecting dramas or melo- 
 dramas. Among twenty pictures of this school there 
 is a celebrated one by Guercino of " Abraham expelling 
 Hagar." Hagar is weeping with despair and indigna- 
 tion ; but she masters herself and her feminine pride 
 renders her rigid ; she will no longer allow Sarah her 
 fortunate rival to feed on her grief. The latter displays 
 the haughtiness of the legitimate wife who has driven 
 away a mistress ; she affects dignity and yet glances 
 out of one corner of her eye with malignant satisfac- 
 tion. Abraham is a noble patriarch who is good at 
 self-display, but empty-headed ; it was difiicult to find 
 any other part for him. All this is of a spirituel stamp 
 and would provide a Diderot with numerous pages; 
 but psychology here assumes precedence of painting. 
 
 How intact the Venetians maintain themselves and 
 how faithful they alone are to the true point of view ! 
 There are five or six Titians in the Ambrosian gallery, 
 and as many Yeroneses at the Brera, which, with folds 
 of stuffs, a curved body, a background of blue sky rayed 
 with ruddy foliage, suffice for every craving of the eyes. 
 A " Nativity" by Titian shows the Virgin under a species 
 of rustic shed of dark wood toward which advance the 
 three magi kings ; one of them almost an Ethiopian 
 negro, comes forward in a green silken jacket wearing 
 
BONIFAZIO. 359 
 
 on his head a sort of barbarous cap surmounted with 
 an enormous red feather ; — imagine the effect, under this 
 relief, of a sooty tint illuminated by three small lights, 
 one on the eye, the other on the white teeth, and the 
 other on the lobe of the ear. The second one, a big, 
 bald well-fed potentate displays himself in a vast robe 
 of yellow silk figured with gold. The third, an old 
 warrior all in red, his sword by his side and standing, 
 scarcely dares let his rude gray beard touch the end of 
 the feet of the little infant. All these painters evidently 
 copied with sincere pleasure surrounding pomps and 
 festivals ; pedantry does not intrude itself to bridle 
 them ; their pictures come to them through the impetus 
 of a free instinct and not through the combinations of 
 academic precepts. In this respect a " Moses in the 
 Bulrushes," by Bonifazio would be amusing if it were 
 not splendid. Fortunately no one here thinks of 
 Moses ; the scene is simply a pleasure-party near Padua 
 or Yerona for beautiful ladies and grand seigneurs. 
 We see people in the gay costume of the day under 
 spreading trees in a broad, mountainous country. The 
 princess desires to take a promenade, accompanied by 
 her full retinue of dogs, horses, monkeys, musicians, 
 squires and ladies of honor. The rest of the cavalcade 
 arrives in the distance. Those who have dismounted are 
 enjoying the shade of the foliage and are indulging in a 
 concert ; the seignors lie at the ladies' feet and are 
 singing with their caps on their heads and their swords 
 by their sides ; the ladies, smiling, are chatting while 
 listening. Their robes of silk and of velvet, at one 
 time red and striped with gold, at another sea-green or 
 deep-blue, their sleeves puffed and slashed, form groups 
 of magnificent tones against the depths of the foliage. 
 They are at leisure and are enjoying life. Some of 
 them are looking at the dwarf giving fruit to the mon- 
 key, or at the little negro in a blue jacket holding the 
 hounds in a leash. In their midst, and still more 
 
360 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 gorgeous, like the leading jewel in a brooch, is the 
 princess standing erect ; a rich surtoiit of blue velvet, 
 open and fastened with diamond buttons, leaves visible 
 her robe of autumnal hue : the chemise spangled with 
 golden seeds enlivens with its whiteness the satiny flesh 
 of the neck and chin, and pearls wind their soft light 
 through the curls of her auburn tresses. 
 
 All this dwindles before a sketch by Yelasquez, broad- 
 ly executed with a few formless dashes of color. It is 
 the bust of a dead monk, as large as life, of a sublime 
 and fearful reality. He is not long dead, and the face 
 is not yet earthy ; but the lips are pale and the eyes 
 heavily closed; the stiffness of the neck breaks the. 
 brown drapery. There is here nothing of the ideal; 
 naked tragedy suffices and more too ; a ray of sunshine 
 falls on the vulgar shaved mask, of one color, enveloped 
 in the sombre folds of the cowl ; under that outward 
 brilHancy the flight of the inner life becomes more 
 tragic ; the man is now empty, and the livid, inert re- 
 mains are only a shell. In vain the contracted brow 
 bears the marks of an agonizing sweat ; the agony is 
 just over and we now feel how heavy is the formidable 
 hand of death. Under this hand the body has suddenly 
 become a foul lump of clay, a pile of dust which, of 
 itself, is about to disintegrate and retain only through 
 a passing usurpation the imprint of the vanished 
 spirit. 
 
CHAPTEE IV. 
 
 COMO AND THE LAKE.— SCEXERY.— THE CATHEDRAL.— ITALL\N AR- 
 » CHITECTURE AND SCULPTLTIE IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 After three months passed in the society of pictures 
 and statues a man gets to be hke one who for three 
 months has been invited out daily to dine ; — give me 
 bread now and no more sweetmeats. 
 
 We take the railway with a light heart, knowing at 
 the terminus we shall find water, trees and veritable 
 mountains, and that the landscape will no longer be 
 merely three feet long and shut up within four margins 
 of gold. There is relief in looking at a beautiful, 
 fertile undulating country, where the white roads form 
 ribbons amidst the green cultures. We reach Monza, 
 an old and famous little town of the middle ages, and 
 take good care not to go to see the ii'on-crown and the 
 jewels of the Lombard queen Theodoline. Veritable 
 antiquities and historic hric a hrac are let alone. There 
 is far greater pleasure in strolling through tlie pretty 
 streets ; the most one contemplates, in passing, is the 
 fa9ade of the cathedral, of a gay Italian gothic, almost 
 plain, where the elegant pulpit, half-ogive haK-classic, 
 decked with shell niches and spiral columns, frames 
 amongst its trefoils and ogives, the serious figures of 
 apostles and saints. These graceful or beautiful forms 
 leave in the mind a sort of poetic melody which lingers 
 there whilst the feet stray about the streets. This little 
 town, agreeable like those of our Touraine, does not seem 
 hourgeoise hke these. We resume our carriage ; the 
 eyes wander over the slopes covered with trees succeed- 
 ing each other along the road leading to the ancient 
 gates of Como. The hotels stand upon the shore, and 
 
 16 / 
 
362 
 
 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 / 
 
 we see from tlie windows the great blue expanse losing 
 itself afar in the golden evening atmosphere. A stock- 
 ade protects the vessels, and the growing duskiness 
 spreads its mistiness over the glittering waves. Night 
 has come. In the universal darkness the mountains 
 form a darker circle around the lake ; a lantern and 
 some distant hghts vacillate here and there like sur- 
 viving stars ; the coolness from the water comes in 
 brought by a gentle breeze ; the port and the square 
 are empty, and one feels himself protected and tran- 
 quillized by the all-pervading silence. -^ 
 
 In the morning we take a steamboat in order to 
 make a tour of the lake, and for the entire day, without 
 fatigue or thought, we swim in a cup of light. The 
 shores are strewn with white villages, reaching down to 
 dip their feet in the water; the mountains descend 
 gradually, their pyramids being populated half-way up ; 
 pale olive and round-topped mulberry trees stretch 
 away in rows along the eminences, and summer-houses, 
 framed in under a beautiful shade, extend their ranges of 
 terraces down to the beach. Toward Bellagio myrtle and 
 lemon trees and parterres of flowers form either white 
 or purple bouquets between the two azure branches of 
 the lake. But, as it retreats toward the north, the 
 country becomes grand and severe ; the mountains rise 
 high and become shattered; rigid seams of primitive 
 rocks, indented crests white with snow, long ravines in 
 which lie ancient strata of frost, emboss or furrow with 
 their entanglements the uniform dome of the sky. Sev- 
 eral lofty crags seem to be bastions ranged in a circle ; 
 the lake was once a glacier, and the friction of its sides 
 has slowly eaten away and rounded off the declivities. 
 Within these inhospitable gorges there is no verdure or 
 trace of life; man ceases to regard himself as on the 
 habitable globe ; he stands in the mineral world an- 
 terior to man, on a bare planet where his sole enter- 
 tainers are stone, the atmosphere and water^ a vast 
 
COMO. S63 
 
 pool the child of eternal snows ; around it is an assem- 
 bly of grave mountains which dip their feet in its azure ; 
 behind them is a second range of whitened peaks, still 
 wilder and more primitive, like an upper circle of giant 
 gods, all motionless and yet all different, as expressive 
 and as varied as human physiognomies, but bathed in a 
 warm velvety tint through distance and the vapory air 
 and tranquil in the enjoyment of their magnificent 
 eternity. The breeze having subsided the great lumi- 
 nary of heaven, above the contracted horizon, flamed 
 down with all its force. The blue of the lake became 
 more profound ; around the boat undulations of velvet 
 rose and fell unintermittingly, and in the hollows, be- 
 tween the azured bands, the sun projected other moving 
 bands like yellow silk spangled with sparks, v 
 
 Como and the Cathedral. — It is in vain to have resolved 
 to see no more works of art. They exist everywhere in 
 Italy, and this little town has such a beautiful cathe- 
 dral ! 
 
 Nowhere have we found a happier union of the Ital- 
 ian and the Gothic,"^ a more beautiful simplicity re- 
 lieved here and there with the pleasing and the fanci- 
 ful. The facade consists of the ordinary gable com- 
 posed of two houses joined together, the one upper and 
 the other lower, clearly defined by four perpendicular 
 cordons of statues. You recognize the type and the 
 bony framework of the national architecture such as 
 Pisa, Sienna and Yerona created it in refashioning the 
 basilicas. Although christian it is gay. Although the 
 solid parts dominate there is no lack of finesse and 
 variety. You feel the substance of the wall but it is 
 embroidered, and embroidered harmoniously. Statues 
 stand in shell niches, but each file of niches terminates 
 in a highly foliated and elegant little canopy. The 
 nudity of the fa9ade is diversified by a large rosace and 
 
 * Begun in 1396, the fa9ade having been finished in 152G. 
 
364 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 four liigli windows, and four files of niches and statues. 
 In order to entirely break the monotony the artist has 
 placed on the two flanks two grand projecting niches 
 and in these stand an angel on one side and the Virgin 
 on the other between pretty spiral columns capped 
 with pointed pinnacles. Over the rose-window run 
 two niches, one narrow and gothic containing a Christ, 
 and the other wide, in which ogive and renaissance 
 forms commingle, and where a second Christ, between 
 the angel and his mother, seems to be bestowing a 
 benediction on the entire structure. Still higher up, 
 on the extreme and central peak, above this elegant, 
 up-springing pyi'amid, you see arising like the crown of 
 a candelabra, an exquisitely charming little openwork 
 turret, four delicate stories of sculptured pilasters and 
 Greek columns, elevated and tapered by a capping of 
 gothic foliage and indentations. Nowhere have we 
 seen a latin fagade in which the rich invention of the 
 Eenaissance and the bewildering finish of ogival taste 
 harmonize in more exquisite sobriety and with a liveher 
 inspiration. 
 
 But the renaissance spirit predominates. This is 
 evident in the abundance and beauty of the statues. 
 The pleasure of contemplating and ennobling the 
 human form is the distinctive mark of this age in which 
 man, freed from ancient superstition and misery, begins 
 to feel his own power, to admire his own genius and to 
 assume for himself the position of the gods under which 
 he had humbled himself. Not only do cordons of 
 statues bind together the four lines of the edifice and 
 overlie each other above the rose-window, but the win- 
 dows are bordered with them, the central door flanked 
 and crowned and the curves of the three portals peo- 
 pled with them. They are of the best epoch, and 
 belong to the dawn of the renaissance."^ Their sim- 
 
 * Two statues on the sides of the great door are dated 1498. 
 
ITALIAN SCULPTURE. 365 
 
 plicitj, their gravity, their originality, their vigor of ex- 
 pression testify to a healthy and youthful art. Several 
 figures of young people in pourpoints and tight hose 
 are chivalrous pages with legs somewhat slender, such 
 as Perugino painted. Naive and semi-awkward airs, a 
 too literal imitation of actual forms, undoubtedly indi- 
 cate that the spirit has not yet attained to its full flight. 
 Again some exaggerated attitudes and superabundant 
 masses of hau' like those of Leonardo da Vinci, still 
 announce the early excess and h'regular pulsation of 
 invention ; — but the sculptor so fully appreciates life ! 
 You realize that he discovers it, that he is enamored 
 with it, that his soul is full of it, that a proud young 
 man, or virginal and passive Madonna, suffice to wholly 
 absorb him ; that varieties of head and of human atti- 
 tude, the movement of muscles and of drapery, all the 
 grandeur and all the action of the body are stamped 
 on his mind through direct contact with it, through 
 spontaneous comprehension and without academic tra- 
 dition. From Ghiberti to Michael Angelo Italian sculp- 
 ture multiplied its masterpieces ; its statuettes, its bas- 
 reliefs, its jewelry form a complete world. If, in the 
 larger and isolated statues it remains inferior to Grecian 
 sculpture it equals it in subordinate statues and in 
 general ornamentation. The statue thus regarded 
 enters as a portion into a whole. The tops of the three 
 doors of the facade are pictures like the bas-reliefs of 
 Ghiberti ; a " Nativity," a " Circumcision," " the Ado- 
 ration of the Magi," and, on the northern facade, a 
 " Visitation" are displayed in complete scenes through 
 a multitude of grouped figures and sometimes with a 
 joyous profusion of arabesques the personages of which 
 are themselves only a fi'agment. The northernmost 
 door consists of an arc supported by two columns and 
 two pilasters, as crowded and as blooming as the fron- 
 tispieces of the books of the period. Naked children 
 cling to the cornices, play with dolphins and bestride 
 
366 LOMBARDY. 
 
 tlie goats, and others are blowing on bagpipes. Small 
 marine cupids are shaking their serpentine tails among 
 jumping frogs. Birds with outspread wings come to 
 peck at the cornucopias. On the neighboring windows 
 runs a frieze of large, expanded flowers, infantile bodies 
 and grave medallions. All the kingdoms of nature, all 
 the graceful and luxurious confusion of the fantastic 
 and of the actual world wind and move about in stone 
 like a pagan carnival in the gardens of Alcinous under 
 the capricious and facile inventiveness of Ariosto. 
 The architecture adapts itself to this elegant fes- 
 tival ; it forms bijous to frame it in. The baptistery 
 is a charming little marble pavilion whose small columns 
 form a circle in order to support a round roof, protect- 
 ing the sculptured vase containing the lustral water. 
 The niches flanking the great entrance are trim little 
 porticoes filled with delicate serpentine arabesques. 
 One ought perhaps to state that the centre of art in 
 the Renaissance is decorative art. Commissions in 
 Greece came principally from the city which desired to 
 have a memorial of its heroes and of its gods. Com- 
 missions in Florence came especially from wealthy in- 
 dividuals who craved ewers, ivory and ebony cabinets, 
 plate, painted walls and ceilings and sculptured stucco 
 in order to decorate their apartments."^ Art, in the 
 former, was rather a public matter and therefore graver, 
 simpler and better calculated to express calm grandeur. 
 Here art is rather a private concern and therefore more 
 flexible, less solemn, and more inclined to seek the 
 agreeable, to excite pleasure and to proportion its 
 dimensions and its inventions to the luxury of which it 
 is the ministrant. 
 
 * See the lives of Paolo Uccello, Dello, Yeroccliio, Pollaiolo, Dona- 
 tello in Yasari. Painting and sculpture in the fifteenth century issue 
 from the goldsmith's art. 
 
CHAPTEK Y. 
 
 FROM COMO TO LAGO MAGGIORE.— DEVOTION. -EPICUREANISM.— THE 
 
 ♦ PEASANTRY, BOURGEOIS AND NOBLES.— POLITICAL DISPOSITIONS. 
 
 —THE NECESSITIES OF ITALY.— LAGO MAGGIORE.— ISOLA MADRE. 
 
 — ISOLA BELLA.— SCENERY.— ART AND NATURE.— THE ALPS AND 
 
 THE SIMPLON. 
 
 The country is beautiful, green and fertile and strewn 
 with villages and countr j-li<iuses ; poplar avenues ex- 
 tend down to the road and terminate in a circle of stone 
 benches under a shade. The crops follow one after 
 another under lines of mulberry -trees ; between these 
 runs the slender stem of a vine, expanding its young 
 leaves and traversed by sunlight. "Wheat, wine and 
 silk compose everywhere a triple harvest on the same 
 field. 
 
 It is a fete day. The people are out of doors in their 
 Sunday clothes. They do not look indigent ; their 
 dwellings are in good condition ; the women wear 
 shawls striped with white and red, black skirts falling 
 in plaits, ear-rings, and a crown of silver pins which 
 fasten their veils and hair. Summing up things in 
 gross there is about the same degree of comfort as in 
 Touraine. Most of the children, however, go barefoot ; 
 the diligence horses are lean nags as in Provence, and 
 a good many signs indicate the same neglect, ignorance 
 and love of pleasure and the same superstition as in 
 the south of France. Numerous Madonnas are seen, 
 and alongside of them a notice to the wa3'farer to re- 
 peat an Ave. Sometimes the walls represent the 
 damned in the midst of flames, and bear an inscription 
 advising the Hving to take heed. At Milan, in the 
 cathedral, Jesus on a cross is surrounded by three or 
 four small silver hearts ; repentant believers who have 
 
368 
 
 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 confessed and who are willing to say a Pater noster or 
 an Ave at the choir, obtain a hundred years' indulgence ; 
 if they are old or impotent they have only to send some 
 one to do it in their place and thus derive no less bene- 
 fit. One of my Yenetian friends regards the state of 
 mind in his province as about the same ; the peasantry 
 are devotees to the Holy Father ; however poor they 
 may be they give their money for masses, their lively 
 imagination offering a firm hold for the religion of 
 rites. 
 
 Hence it is that they are only very moderately patri- 
 otic. In the late campaign our officers found them 
 better disposed toward the Austrians than to the 
 Piedmontese. The German administration had been 
 orderly, lenient enough and even paternal for the 
 peasantry ; these, unable to read and indifferent to 
 politics entertained no bad feeling against Austria. 
 When national pride and sentiment are wanting little 
 does it matter if the master be a foreigner ; if he allows 
 dancing, drinking, love-making and pays well for 
 services, that suffices. A boatman, a shrewd fellow, as 
 they almost all are, said to me, "The Austrians are 
 clever folks ; they made a good deal of work, and there 
 was more trade in their day. They were only ill-natured 
 to the signori because the signori were always against 
 them. Now the signori are satisfied ; — they have every- 
 thing and their sons are officers. It is only the poor 
 who are miserable ; none of the peasants have property ; 
 the land all belongs to the rich. A day -laborer earns 
 thirty cents a day, a kilogramme of meat costs eight}^- 
 five centimes and we pay as many taxes as before." — 
 This intelligent and sensuous race see but one object in 
 life, that of pleasure and idleness. A country bourgeois 
 tells me : " They would like to enjoy themselves and do 
 nothing ;" they esteem a government the more accord- 
 ing as they happen to enjoy under it more amusements 
 and more leisure. 
 
LOMBARD PATRIOTISM. oo» 
 
 To make amends the middle-class and the nobles, all 
 who possess a cloth coat and read the newspapers, are 
 enthusiastic for Italy. In 1848 Milan fought for three 
 days and drove off the Austrians with its own forces. 
 When the French, after the battle of Magenta, entered 
 the city, their joy, gratitude and enthusiasm amounted 
 to delirium. One soldier, at first, appeared, alone by 
 himself ; the throng of people rushing forward to wel- 
 come and embrace him was so great that he could not 
 keep his feet ; his head went bobbing about and he 
 staggered with exhaustion. Soon after this the ad- 
 vanced battalions appeared. Young girls with their 
 mothers ran through the streets embracing the soldiers 
 and even the Turcos. These battalions remained a 
 fortnight ; cafes, restaurants, all was given up to them ; 
 they were not allowed to pay a cent. It was impossible 
 for a resident to have a glass of ice-cream brought to 
 him — everything being for the French ; it was impos- 
 sible for a sick Milanese to procure a physician, as they 
 were all attending on the wounded French. After the 
 battle of Solferino the ladies visited them in the hospi- 
 tals ; the private houses were all filled with them ; 
 people even disputed their possession ; many of the 
 captains on recovering wedded rich heiresses. It is not 
 that the Austrians were brutal or insolent ; on the con- 
 trary they were gentle, well brought up, refined and 
 patient in the extreme. Through orders from their 
 superiors the oiB&cers avoided duels ; they were jostled 
 at the theatres and people trod on their toes ; but they 
 kept silent ; otherwise they would have been compelled 
 to fight every day. The national sentiment was intract- 
 able toward them and it is so yet. Lately a Milanese 
 lady, who had remitted money to the Pope, was recog- 
 nized in her box in the theatre and hooted and whistled 
 at until she was obliged to leave the house by a back- 
 door. I peruse two or three newspapers every day, 
 and I do not see one, except the " Unita," which is not 
 
S'^O LOMBARDY. 
 
 patriotic. The caricatures of tlie Pope are brutal ; you 
 see Death, holding a ball, bowling at him between the 
 legs of the Emperor Napoleon; Death again is a 
 gambler making an unexpected cast and delivering 
 Italy. Garibaldi is admired, exalted, adored even in 
 the meanest inn ; the conductor of the diligence shows 
 me, at Yarese, the house in which he married his second 
 wife, "the wicked one," and the wall of which he made 
 his barricade. Nobody can give an idea of his popu- 
 larity in Italy ; Joan of Arc enjoyed less in France. 
 At Levano, I see on the wall of the cafe an inscription 
 stating that the son of the proprietor died for his 
 country in combating in Sicily by the side of the 
 national hero. Every evening and afternoon, in the 
 cafes, on the public squares, aU the semi-bourgeois, the 
 shopkeepers, the clerks, read then- journal and discuss 
 the plans of the ministers. To tell the truth they even 
 discuss too much, and gratify themselves with words. 
 These latin and southerly races seem to be composed 
 of amateurs who, having a prompt conception and a 
 facile tongue, soar and circulate above action without 
 taking any part in it. They delight in argument for its 
 own sake ; discussion provides them with an outlet for 
 their oratorical humor ; political conversation forms a 
 sort of opera seria the effect of which is enervating be- 
 cause it is complete and all-sufficing. They do not 
 investigate ; their pohtical journals are as much below 
 ours as ours are below the English journals : they con- 
 tain the superficial ebullitions of impulsive faculties but 
 not the true reflections of solid science. They divert 
 rather than exercise theu' minds ; but at this moment 
 Italy has more need of works than of words. Financial 
 matters are its stumbling-block. In order to become 
 an independent people and a mihtary power it is neces- 
 sary to pay more and therefore to labor and produce 
 more. A person who establishes a manufactory, a land- 
 owner who drains his grounds, an artisan who lengthens 
 
LAGO-MAGGIOKE. 371 
 
 his day by an hour are at this moment its best citizens. 
 The object is not to read newspapers and to declaim, 
 but to dig, to manufacture, to calculate, to learn, to 
 invent every wearisome, positive and confining occu- 
 pation which the people would so gladly leave to 
 northern blockheads. It is a sore trial to pass from 
 an epicurean and speculative life to an industrial and 
 militant life : the dilettant and the patrician seem to 
 become serfs and wheels of a machine ; but the choice 
 must be made. In aspiring to form a great nation it is 
 necessary, in order to subsist alongside of others, to ac- 
 cept the obligations others impose on themselves, that 
 is to say faithful and regular labor, self-constraint, a 
 discipline of the mind methodically devoted to fixed 
 purposes, an enrolment of persons confined to one 
 sphere and stimulated by competition, a loss of indiffer- 
 ence, a diminution of gaiety, a mutilation and a con- 
 centration of faculties, constant and stern effort, every- 
 thing, in short, that separates an Italian of the last 
 three centuries from a modern Englishman or Ameri- 
 can. 
 
 Lago-Maggiore, April 10th. If I had m}^ choice of a 
 country-house I would take one here. From above 
 Yarese where the road begins to descend, one sees at 
 his feet a broad plain over which is spread out a series 
 of low hills. The whole expanse is clothed wdth ver- 
 dure and with trees, with fields and crops spotted with 
 white and yellow flowers like a velvet Venetian robe, 
 with mulberry-trees and vines, and, farther on, with 
 bouquets of oaks and poplars, and scattered among the 
 hills, with beautiful placid lakes, united and spreading 
 out broadly and glittering like mirrors of steel. It is 
 the freshness of an English landscape among the noble 
 lines of a picture by Claude. The mountains and the 
 sky impart majesty and the superabundant water im- 
 parts moisture and grace. The two natures, that of the 
 north and that of the south, here unite in a happy and 
 
372 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 friendly embrace in order to combine tlie softness of a 
 grassy park with the grandeurs of an amphitheatre of 
 crags. The lake itself is much more varied than that 
 of Como : it is not encased from one end to the other by 
 naked and abrupt hills ; it has rugged mountains but 
 also gentle slopes, the drapery of the forests and a 
 perspective of plains. From Laveno you see its broad, 
 placid surface, scattered with rays and damasked like a 
 cuirass under innumerable scales in a blaze of sunshine 
 traversing the dome of clouds ; scarcely does the light 
 breeze impel a dying undulation against its gravelly 
 shore. Toward the east a path winds half way up the 
 bank among green hedges, blooming fig-trees, spring 
 flowers, and every description of delightful perfume. 
 The great lake opens out tranquil in full view ; the 
 swelling sail of a small vessel is seen, also two white 
 hamlets which at this distance seem to be the work of 
 beavers. Mountains bristling with trees descend at 
 long intervals to the water's edge, expanding their 
 pyramids, their misty peaks half lost in the cloudy 
 grayness. 
 
 We take a boat at sunrise and traverse the lake in 
 the transparent vapor of the dawn. It is broad like an 
 arm of the sea, and its light waves of a leadeny blue 
 shine feebly. The thin mist envelops both sky and 
 water with its gray hue. By degrees it grows thinner 
 and rises, and through its decreasing meshes penetrate 
 the beautiful light and delightful warmth. Thus do we 
 glide for a couple of hours in the soft and monotonous 
 suavity of the half-transparent atmosphere stirred by 
 the breeze as if by the gentle motion of waving plumes ; 
 then it becomes quite clear and nothing is visible around 
 us but azure and light ; the surrounding water seems 
 to be a surface of wrinkled velvet, and the pure sky 
 above a conch of glowing sapphire. Meanwhile a white 
 spot appears, increases in size and becomes detached : 
 this is Isola-Madre enwrapped in its terraces, the waves 
 
ISOLA BELLA. 373 
 
 beating against its great blue stones and sprinkling its 
 lustrous leaves with moisture. The boat draws near 
 and we land. Aloes with their massive leaves and the 
 Indian fig on the sides of the ledge are waving their 
 tropical growths in the simshine ; avenues of lemon- 
 trees wind along the walls while their green or ripe 
 fruit clings close to the panels of the rock. Four series 
 of foundations thus arise in stories under their decora- 
 tions of precious plants. On the summit the isle con- 
 sists of a tuft of verdure expanding its masses of leaves 
 above the water, laurels, evergreens, platanes, pome- 
 granates, exotic shrubbery, flowering glycines and 
 blooming clusters of azalia. One walks along sur- 
 rounded by coolness and perfume ; there is no one 
 here but a custodian ; the island is deserted, seemingly 
 awaiting some youthful prince and his fairy bride to 
 screen their nuptials ; thus carpeted with tender grass 
 and flowery shrubs it is simply a lovely morning rose, a 
 white and violet bouquet around which hover the bees ; 
 its immaculate prauies are starred with the primrose 
 and the anemone ; peacocks and pheasants quietly pa- 
 rade their golden robes starred with eyes or coated 
 with purple, the undisputed sovereigns among a popu- 
 lation of twittering and frolicsome birds. 
 
 I was no longer capable of appreciating formal archi- 
 tectural works, and especially the perverted forms and 
 artificial decoration of Isola Bella ; its grottoes of rock- 
 work and mosaic, its apartments wainscoted with pic- 
 tures and filled with curiosities, its water-basins, its 
 fountains appeared to me unsightly and made no im- 
 pression. I gazed on the western and opposite shore, 
 craggy and wholly green and which seems truly formed 
 to please the eye. The lofty and tranquil mountains 
 rise up in all their grandeur, and one longs to go and 
 recline on then- turf}^ beds. Sloping fields of an incom- 
 parable freshness clothe the near declivities. The nar- 
 cissus, euphorbia and purple flowerets abound in the 
 
374 LOMBARDY. 
 
 hollows; clusters of the myosotis open their little 
 azure eyes and their tops tremble in the ooze of the 
 springs. We see myriads of rills descending the hill- 
 sides, tumbling about and intersecting each other ; 
 diminutive cascades strew the grass with their pearly 
 showers while rivulets of diamonds, collecting these 
 scattered waters, flow on and discharge themselves into 
 the lake. Here and there over this blooming freshness 
 and these soft murmurings spreading oaks extend the 
 lustre of their early verdure, mounting upward tier 
 upon tier until, finally, their height disappearing, the 
 sky, at the summit, is barred by their limitless layers 
 and the indefinite colonnade of the forest. 
 
 "We take the diligence at two o'clock in the morning. 
 This is the last day of the journey ; nowhere is Italy 
 more beautiful. Toward four o'clock an exquisite in- 
 distinct dawn peers out from the night like the pale- 
 ness of a chaste statue ; a remote opaline reflection 
 rests on the heights and growing half-lights venture 
 their pearly grays beneath the nocturnal blue. The 
 stars glimmer but, otherwise, the atmosphere is dusky, 
 while shadows similar to cloud-flocks creep along the 
 ground. Our vehicle stops, and we cross a river in a 
 ferry-boat. In this silence and in this total effaccment 
 of objects the water is the only living thing, moving 
 and stirring imperceptibly, its flowing surface rayed 
 and glittering with small eddies intermingling between 
 its dark banks. The trees, meanwhile, peer out 
 through the haze, and the buds on their tops become 
 visible enveloped in dew, awaiting, apparently, the 
 completion of daylight. The sky becomes whiter, the 
 dawn, meanwhile, extinguishing the stars ; on all sides 
 both vegetation and plants come out in clear relief ; 
 the gauzy veil grows thinner and thinner and finally 
 evaporates ; their color reappears ; they are reborn 
 with the light, and we feel the sweet wonder of creatures 
 surprised to find themselves as they were the previous 
 
SCENERY. 375 
 
 evening, again to resume their suspended life. The 
 whole gorge is filled with them, while monstrous moun- 
 tains, on the two sides of this scattered and charming" 
 population, rise up like guardian giants in sombre 
 masses indenting the luminous skj with their whitened 
 brows. At length a flash issues from one of the rugged 
 crests ; the sudden, dazzling jet pierces the vapor ; 
 sections of verdure begin to brighten, the streams 
 glow, and huge antique vines, the domes of the trees, 
 delicate arabesques of clambering shrubs, all the luxu- 
 riousness of a vegetation fed by the freshness of eternal 
 springs and by the humid warmth of the rocks dis- 
 plays itself like the attire of a fairy enveloped in her 
 gauze of gold. 
 
 No, it is not of a fairy here that we must speak but of 
 a goddess. The fantastic is only a caprice and a mala- 
 dy of the human brain ; nature is healthy and stable ; 
 our discordant reveries have no right to be compared 
 with her beauty. She is self-sustaining and self-devel- 
 oping ; she is independent and perfect, active and serene, 
 and that is all that can be said of her ; if we presume 
 to compare her to any human work it must be to the 
 Greek gods, to the august Pallas and the supernatural 
 Jupiter of Athens ; she is self-sufficing as they are. 
 "We cannot love her, our words fail to reach her ; she is 
 be3^ond our grasp and indifferent ; we can only contem- 
 plate her like the effigies of temples, mute and bare- 
 headed, in order to impress ourselves with her perfected 
 form and invigorate our fragile being in contact with 
 her immortality. This contemplation alone is a deliv- 
 erance. We escape from our turmoil, from our desultory 
 and ephemeral thoughts. What is history but a conflict 
 of unaccomplished efforts and abortive works ? What 
 have I seen in this Italy but secular gropings of genius 
 circumventing each other, disintegrating faiths and un- 
 successful enterprises ? What is a Musee if not a cem- 
 etery, and what is a painting or statue or piece of 
 
376 
 
 LOMBAEDY. 
 
 architecture if not a memorial which a passing genera- 
 tion anxiously erects to itself in order to prolong its 
 waning thought by a sepulchre as evanescent as this 
 thought? On the contrary before heaven, amidst 
 mountains and Avaters, we feel as if we stood in the 
 presence of perfect and perennial beings. No accident 
 has befallen them, they are the same as at the first day ; 
 every year the same spring sends forth to them from 
 copious sources pith and vigor ; our exhaustion is re-, 
 stored by their might and beneath their tranquillity our 
 restlessness subsides. In them appears the uniform 
 power evolved by the variety and transformation of 
 things, the great fruitful and genial mother whom 
 nothing disturbs because beyond her there is nothing. 
 Then from the soul departs an unknown and profound 
 sensation ; its inmost recesses then appear ; the in- 
 numerable Hues with which life has invested it, its 
 wrecks of passion and of hope, all the human dross 
 which has accumulated on its surface is dissolved and 
 fades away ; it reappears in its simplicity ; it revives 
 the instinct of former days, the vague montonous 
 words which formerly placed it in communion with the 
 gods, with those natural gods who live in all things ; it 
 feels that all the words it has since spoken or heard are 
 but confused babblings, a mental concussion, a street 
 noise, and that if there is one healthy and desirable 
 moment it is that when, quitting the vexations of its so- 
 journ, it perceives, as venerated sages have said, the 
 harmony of the spheres, that is to say the palpitation 
 of the eternal universe. 
 
 The road winds up the declivities, and toward Isella, 
 the mountains become bare and crowded. Walls of 
 cliff fifteen hundred feet high enclose the route within 
 their defiles. Their yellow bases, blackened by the 
 exudations of the springs, their towers, their chaos of 
 deformed and corroded ruins, seem to be the crumbled 
 
SCENERY. 377 
 
 masses of myriads of cathedrals. One vainly recurs to 
 memory or to liis dreams for forms of tins kind ; you 
 imagine some enormous trunk hacked by the axe of a 
 blind colossus whose children, more feeble, afterward 
 approach with pruning-hooks a hundred feet long and 
 full of obstinate fury, in order to add other gashes to 
 the mighty blows of their father. It would require 
 similar rage and insanity to explain these grand pre- 
 cipitous breaches, these sudden chasms, these over- 
 hanging crests and needles, this monstrous wildness of 
 disorder. Trains of tarnished frost creep about the 
 hollows, each one melting and then flowing away ; thus 
 on all sides do the streams collect and intersect each 
 other, at one time sinuous and clinging to the brown 
 sides, at another scattered in cascades and exposing in 
 the air their feathery foam. In the distance smoke is 
 ascending and the torrent fights its way grumbling be- 
 tween the rocky palisades. 
 
 We still ascend and the snow glitters between the 
 peaks ; sometimes it whitens an entire declivity and 
 when the sun shines on it its brightness is so vivid that 
 the eyes are blinded by it. The defile widens and 
 sloping fields spread out in their snowy shroud. All, 
 however, is not barren : armies of larches climb in dis- 
 order and with an air of resignation to the assault of 
 the cliffs ; their fresh buds give them a peculiar yellow 
 dress ; a few morose firs spot them with their black 
 cones ; they mount upward in rows among dying trunks 
 and bodies of mutilated trees and all the ravages of 
 avalanches ; like the survivors on a battle-field they 
 look as if they knew that they were still to fight again 
 and were aware of all the suffering that awaits them. 
 On the summit, near the hospice and village of the 
 Simplon extends a mournful plateau ploughed with fur- 
 rows all bedimmed with melting snows like an aban- 
 doned, devastated cemetery. Here is the boundary 
 
378 LOMBAKDY. 
 
 between two regions and it seems as if it w^ere the 
 boundary between two worlds ; the dazzling peaks are 
 lost in the whiteness of the clouds, so that one nc 
 longer knows where the earth ends and where the sky 
 begins. 
 
INDEX 
 
 [See remarks preceding Index of volume on Kome and Naples.] 
 
 'Abel sacrificing,' Byzantine, 194 
 
 'Abraham andlhe Angels,' Byzantine, 
 194 ; ' — expelling Hagar,' by Guercino, 
 358 
 
 Academy of the Fine Arts, Florence, 98 
 
 Adam, Traditions of, 93 ; painted by 
 Bandinelli, 146 
 
 'Adam and Eve,' painted by Pietro 
 d'Orvieto, 63 ; by Masaccio, 124 ; by 
 Lombard!, 168 ; by Jacopo delta Quer- 
 ela, 168 
 
 'Adonis,' by M. Angelo, 145 
 
 'Adoration of the Magi,' by Paul Vero- 
 nese, -259 ; '— of the Shepherds,' by Pe- 
 rugino, 11 
 
 Albano, Stjde of, 175 ; 'Baptism of Christ,' 
 17T 
 
 Albergo, The, Venice, 323 
 
 Alberti, Battista, Tomb of, 103 
 
 Alexander VI., 15 
 
 Alfieri, 77 ; Tomb of, 103 
 
 Altichierri, 206 
 
 Ammanati, Fountatu of, 88 
 
 Anatomy, Study of. 120-2 
 
 Angelico (Fra) da Fiesole, 8 ; Works of 
 in Perugia, 9 ; Painter of Visions, 69 ; 
 Inmate "of the Convent of San Marco, 
 131 ; Life and Character, 131-3 ; Spirit 
 of his Art, 133-9 
 
 Angioli, Bartolo di Angiolino, 125 
 
 Anjou, King of, 99 
 
 'Annunciation,' by Fra Angelico, 9 ; by 
 Perugino, 9 ; by Gian Nicola Manni, 
 11 ; by Lombardi, 168 ; by Veronese, 
 310 
 
 Annunziata, Square of, 73 
 
 'AuttEUS,' 93 
 
 Antonelli, 31 
 
 Apennines, The, 3 
 
 'Apollo' in the Tribune, 1-39; Greek 
 Statues of, 144 
 
 'Apostles,' by Veronese, 310; by As- 
 petti, 208, 2-23 
 
 Architecture, Spirit of, 92 ; Gothic de- 
 scribed, 315-6 ; Italian Gothic, 363-6 ; 
 Lombard, .3.30 
 
 Aretino, Portrait of, by Titian, 156 ; Let- 
 ters, 1.58; Life. Character, and Quota- 
 tions from, 287-93 ; Household of, 290 ; 
 Love of Nature, 291-3 ; Friend of Ti- 
 tian, 291-3 
 
 Arezzo. Bishop of, 128 
 
 'Ariadne and Bacchus,' 297 
 
 Ai-istotle. 212, 215 
 
 Arius, 106 
 
 Arnolfo, 89 
 
 Arnolfo di Lapo, Fountain by, 6 
 
 Artists, Interpreters of their Age, 276 
 Aspetti, 205 ; -Apostles' by, 208, 223 
 Assisi, 8, 16 ; Schools of, 34 
 'Assumption,' by Tintoretto, 254 ; by Ti 
 
 tian, 305 
 Ataulf the Goth, 195 
 'Aurelia,' 22 
 Austrians, Hatred of, in Venice, 258 ; in 
 
 Lombardy, 368 
 Avanzi, Jacopo. 206 
 Averrhoeists, 66, 106 
 Avignon, Popes of, 66 
 
 'Bacchante,' 144 
 
 'Bacchus,' by Michael Angelo, 145 
 
 Bambaja. Sculptor, 347 
 
 Bandinelli. 117, 146 
 
 'Baptism of Jesus,' by Albano, 177; by 
 Perugino, 10 : by Verocchio, 122 
 
 Baptistery of Pisa', 61 ; of Florence, 93- 
 7 ; of Ravenna, 194 
 
 Baroche, 175 
 
 Bartolomeo (Fra), Works by, in Pitti 
 Palace, 158; in Uffizj, 159; Character 
 of. 159 
 
 Basilica. (See Churches.) 
 
 Beccaria, 30 
 
 Beccafumi, Works of, 47 
 
 Beethoven, 150 
 
 Bellini, John, 282 
 
 Bembo, Cardinal, Tomb of, 207 
 
 Benedetto Theatre, Venice, 255 
 
 Benedict XL, Tomb of, 7 
 
 Bettino dei Bardi, Tomb of, 104 
 
 Bianco Capello, 153 
 
 Bicci, Lorenzo, 69 
 
 Biordo di Michelotti, 8 
 
 'Blues,' 186, 188 
 
 Boccaccio, 52 ; Poesy of, 67-8 
 
 Bologna, Description of. 161 ; Churches, 
 166 ; School of Art. ITl-S 
 
 Bonifazio, Decorator of the Ducal Pal- 
 ace, 223 : Works in the Academy, 
 Venice, 309 ; 'Rendition of Verona to 
 the Doge,' .339 ; 'Moses in the Bul- 
 rushes,' 359 ; ' The Wicked Rich Man's 
 Banquet.' 309 
 
 Bordone, Paris, 252 
 
 Botticelli. 117; painted by Masaccio 
 125 \ Sentiment of, 130 
 
 Braccio di Montone, S 
 
 Braucacci Chapel, 123-4 
 
 Briosco. Andrea. 209 
 
 'Bronze Serpent,' by Tintoretto. 321 
 
 Brosses, President dc, quoted, 142, '265-7 
 
 Brother Bernardo, 26 ; — Currado, 26 
 
380 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Bninelleschi. 91 ; Architect of the Duo- 
 mo, 95 ; Goldsmith, 117 ; Designer of 
 the Pitti Palace, 152 
 
 Bruto, the Historian, 72 
 
 Buffalmaco. 108 
 
 Buondelmonti, Feuds of the, 84 
 
 Byron, 180, 181 
 
 Byzantine Art, 1S2-5 
 
 c. 
 
 'Cain and Abel,' by Pietro d'Orvieto, 
 m ; by Titian, 308 
 
 Cambio, 11, 14 
 
 Campagna. the Sepulchre of Rome, 1-2 
 
 Campanile of Florence, by Giotto, 92-3 ; 
 of Venice, 219, 220 
 
 Campo-Santo of Pisa, G2 
 
 Canaletti, 220, 262 
 
 Canova. 103 ; Monument of, 248 
 
 Capponi, Marquis Gino, 79 
 
 Caracci, The, 173 ; Ludovico, 173 ; Anni- 
 bale, 173 ; Spirit of their School, 174 ; 
 Angustino. 325, 358 
 
 Carmine, Church of, 98 
 
 Carpaccio, painter of ' St. Ursula,' 283 
 
 Carraciulo, Tomb of, 347 
 
 Carrari. Tomb of, 207 
 
 Casanova, quoted, 265 
 
 Cascine, The, 74 
 
 Cassiodorus, 232 
 
 Cathedral, Sienna. 42-8; Como, 363-6; 
 of Milan, 345. (See Duomo.) 
 
 Cavalcanti, 86, 101 
 
 Cavour, 29 
 
 Cecco d'Ascoli, 101 
 
 Cellini— 'Perseus,' 87; Goldsmith, 117; 
 quoted, 121 
 
 Cerchi, The. (See Donati.) 
 
 Championuet, 29 
 
 Chapels— Brancacci, 123-4 ; Medici, 147- 
 9: Miniscalco, 333; Pellegrini, 333; 
 St. Felix, Padua, 206 
 
 'Christ'— by Sodoma, 54 ; in the Duomo 
 of Pisa, 60; by Pietro d'Orvieto, 63; 
 in the Baptistery. Florence, 93 ; by 
 Giotto : ' — with St. Thomas,' ' — Dis- 
 puting with the Doctors,' 102 ; ' — at 
 the Sepulchre,' 200 ; by Giottino, 104 ; 
 by Domenichino, 176 : by Guido, 177 ; 
 in Byzantine Art, 185, 194-5 ; Mosaic 
 in St. Mark's, Venice. 241 ; '— on the 
 Cross,' by Tintoretto, 323; in San- 
 Zenone, Verona, 333 ; by Leonardo da 
 Vinci, Milan, 350 
 
 Church. The. Symbolized, 105-6 
 
 Churches — Bologna : San Domenico, 
 166; San Petronio. Constantinople; 
 St. Sophia, 191. Florence : San Lo- 
 renzo, 146-7 ; San Miniato, 75 : Santa 
 Croce. 98, 103-4; Santa Maria No- 
 vella, 98, 103-7. Milan : San Ambro- 
 gio, 348 ; Santa Maria delle Grazie, 
 350. Padua: San Antonio. 204-10: 
 San Giustina, 203 ; Santa Maria dell' 
 Arena, 200. Perugia : San Agostino, 
 6. Ravenna : San ApoUinare,"i82 ; — 
 in Classe, 196; San Vitale, 192-4; 
 Santa Agatha, 194. Rome: San Gre- 
 gorio, 142. Venice : Gesuati. 253 ; Ge- 
 suiti. 253^; San Apostoli, 229; San 
 Giobbe, 251 ; San Giorgio Masgiore, 
 219, 229 ; Sau Giovanni e Paolo, 242 ; 
 
 San Marco, 219; San Rocco, 316; San 
 Mose, 229 ; Sau Luca, 229 ; Santa Ma- 
 ria dell' Orto, 251 ; Santa Maria della 
 Salute, 219. Verona: San Zenone, 
 3;S3-5: Santa Anastasia, 332; Santa 
 Maria I'Antica, 335. 
 
 Cigoli, 175 
 
 Cimabue, Works of, and Character, 98- 
 100 
 
 'Cleopatra,' by Guido, 158 
 
 Climate, Effect of, on the Human Consti- 
 tution and on Art, 274 
 
 Codinup Curopalates, 187 
 
 CoUeoni, Statue of in Venice, 242 
 
 Commines, quoted, 279 
 
 'Communion of St. Jerome,' by Augus- 
 tino Caracci, 173 
 
 Como, 361 ; Lake of, 362 ; Cathedral, 363 
 
 Condottieri, 8 
 
 Constantine, Persecutions under, 95 ; 
 Society under, 192 
 
 Constantinople, Society of, 186-92 
 
 Contarini, Tomb of, 207, 277 
 
 Corinne, 142 
 
 Comaro, Luigi, Portrait of, by Titian, 156 
 
 Corneille. quoted, 202 
 
 'Coronation of the Virgin,' by Piero Pol- 
 laiolo, 123 
 
 Correggio. 354 ; 'Repose of the Virgin,' 
 357; 'Flight into Egypt,' 141 
 
 Corro, 86 
 
 Cosimo, Piero di, 130 
 
 Credi, 130 
 
 Cremonini, Interpreter of Epicurus, 264 
 
 'Dpsdalus,' 93 
 
 'Daniel,' Byzantine, 196 
 
 Dante, quoted, 19 ; Account of himself, 
 22-3 ; Love of a Child, 24 : Genius of, 
 91 ; on Poems of Chivalry. 94 : Tomb 
 of, 103 ; Visions of Paradise, 134 ; at 
 Padua, 200 
 
 'David,' byDonatello, 143, 145; '—and 
 Goliath,' by Titian, 308 
 
 De Maistre, 78 
 
 "Death,' by Piers Plowman, 67; Monu- 
 mental Treatment of, 245 
 
 Delacroix, compared with Tintoretto, 322 
 
 Dello, 117, 119 
 
 'Descent from the Cross,' by Titian, 303 
 
 Desenzano, 342 
 
 Diderot, 358 
 
 Dino Campagni, 84-7 
 
 •Diritto,' 36, 81 
 
 ' Discobuius,' 88, 144 
 
 Discorso Aristocratico, quoted, 265 
 
 Divine Comedy, quoted, 19-20, 23 
 
 Dolce, 175 
 
 Domenichino— 'Our Lady of the Rosary,' 
 175 ; 'Martyrdom of St. Agnes.' 'Peter 
 of Verona,' 176; Fidelity "to the Real, 
 177 
 
 Domini canes, 106 
 
 Donatello— 'Judith.' 87 ; Decorator of 
 the Campanile, 95 ; Goldsmith, 117 ; 
 Pulpits by, 147 : Statue of Guattema- 
 lata, 204 ; Bronzes by, 209 
 
 Donati and Cerchi, Feuds of, S5-6 
 
 Donati Gianotti, quoted, 285 
 
 Ducal Palace, Venice, 219, 221 ; Painters 
 in, 294 ; Ait of, 294-300 
 
INDEX. 
 
 381 
 
 Duccio. 51 ; Art of, and of contempora- 
 ries, 5-2 
 
 Dumas. 198. 256 
 
 Duomo (The) of Pisa. 58-60 : of Florence, 
 89-02 ; of Verona, 330-2; of Milan,345-6 ; 
 ol Como, 363-6 
 
 Epicurus, 264 
 Erematani. Church of, 202 
 Entvchians. The. 189 
 'Eve,' bv Ghiberti, 96; by Baudinelli. 
 146 ; by Tintoretto, 316 
 
 'Faun,' in Tribune, 140 
 
 Falconetto, 205 
 
 Fedi, 153 
 
 Fenice (La) Theatre. Venice, 256 
 
 Ficin, 112. 128 
 
 Filicaja. Tomb of, 103 
 
 Filippino. 124 
 
 'Fioretti.' 17. 131 
 
 Flagellatoi-s of France, 66 
 
 Flaubert, G.. 81 
 
 'Fliirht into Egj-pt,' by Correggio, 141 
 
 Floral Games, 188 
 
 Florence— Contests in, 24: First Im- 
 pressions of. 71^ ; Suburbs, 74-5 ; (see 
 Society, Churches, Politics, &c.) 
 
 Florian, Cafe, in Venice. 230 
 
 Foligno— Ridicule of the Pope, 34 ; De- 
 cline of Papal Supporters, 35 
 
 'Fornarina." The, 140, 174 
 
 'Fortune,' 67 
 
 Fountain of Ammanati, 88 
 
 Fourier. 214 
 
 Franceschina. 289 
 
 Francia— Goldsmith School, 117, 130; 
 Works of, 171 
 
 Francis, St.. 15 : Tomb of. 17-21 : Char- 
 acter of. 21 ; painted by Cimabue, 99 ; 
 'Marriace of with Poverty,' 101 ; 
 painted^'by Giotto, 104, 205 
 
 Frescoes — Campo-Santo, 62 ; by Loren- 
 zetti, 63 ; by Spinello d'Arezzo. (i3 ; by 
 the Orcagnas, 64-6 ; by Gozzoli. 69 : bv 
 Giotto, 104, 200-2 ; by Taddeo Gaddi, 
 104 ; by S. Memmi. 106 ; by Vasari, 
 146 ; by Mantegna, 2U2 
 
 Fi'oissart, quoted, 64 
 
 o. 
 
 Gabriello. Marco Trifone, type of the 
 Patrician Ruler. 286 
 
 Gaddi. Angiolo, 108 
 
 Gaddi. Taddeo— Fresco bv, 104; 'Philos- 
 ophv,' 106 : Views of Art, 108 
 
 Galileo. Tomb of. 103 
 
 Garibaldi — Number of Volunteers under 
 him. 28 : Portraits of, 198 ; Popularity 
 of. 258. 370 
 
 Geloisa. 77 
 
 Gesuiti, Church of the, 253^ 
 
 Gesuati. Church of the, 253 
 
 Ghiberti— Love of the Antique. 95 : 
 Works, 96-7 ; Education in the Gold- 
 smith's Art, 117 
 
 Ghirlandaijo. 117; Works of, 127 
 
 Gibbon, 94. 182 
 
 Ginevra de' Benci, 128 
 
 Gioberti, 78 
 
 Giordano, Luca, 307 
 
 Giorgone, 157 
 
 Giotto— Painter of Visions. 20. 191 ; Cam- 
 panile by, in Florence, 92-3 ; Character 
 of, 100-2 ; Frescoes by, in Padua. 200-2 
 
 Giottino, 104 
 
 Giovanni di Bologna (see John of Bo- 
 logna) 
 
 Giovanni da Milano, 108, 205 
 
 Giunta, painter of the oldest known 
 picture. 49 
 
 Goldoni, quoted. 264, 265 
 
 Goldsmiths. School and Art of, 117 
 
 Gozzi. quoted. 265. 268 
 
 Gozzoli. Frescoes by, 69 
 
 Granacci, 125 
 
 'Greens,' 186. 188 
 
 Gregory of Nazianza, IBS 
 
 Grosso. Nanni , his esteem of Donatello's 
 art. 121 
 
 Guardi. 262 
 
 Guariento, Portrait of, by Veronese, 339 
 
 Guattemalata. Statue of. 204 
 
 Guercino-Bolognese School. 175; Works, 
 177 ; 'Abraham expelling Hagar.' 358 
 
 Guido — 'Cleopatra.' 158 ; Bolognese 
 School, 175 ; Works of, 177-8 
 
 Gaido of Sienna, 49 
 
 'Habakkuk,' bv Titian, 307 
 
 Hegel. 198 
 
 Heine. 22 
 
 •Hell.' by Orcagna, 66 ; by Giotto, 200 
 
 Hemling. 259 
 
 'Hercules,' 93 ; by Pollaiolo, 122 
 
 'Herodias.' by Gian Nicola Manni, 11 
 
 Mosaic of, in St. Mark's, 241 
 Hoche. 31 
 
 Houssave, Amelot de la, quoted, 265 
 Humanists. The, 114 
 Humboldt, 211 
 Huns, The, 189 
 
 I. 
 
 •Imitation of Jesus Christ,' 9, 133, lU 
 
 Imperia. Tomb of 142 
 
 Institute of the Fine Arts, Sienna, 52 
 
 'Intermezzo' of Heine, 22 
 
 Isaac. Tomb of the Exarch, 196 
 
 Isola-Bella. 373 
 
 •Israelites, The Ten Tribes of,' 210 
 
 Jacomino of Verona, 200 
 
 Jacopo di Casentino, 108 
 
 .Jesuitic Taste. 205 
 
 John of Bologna— Bronze Doors to Duo- 
 mo of Pisa760 ; •Rape of the Sabines,' 
 87 ; "Virtue triumphant overVice,' 146 ; 
 •Neptune.' 169 
 
 'Jt)hn the Baptist,' painted by Giotto, 104 
 
 John of Pisa. 7 
 
 •Judith," by Donatello, 87 
 
382 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 'Judith and Holofernes,' 209 
 'Justice,' 222 
 Jupiter, by Perugino, 11 
 Justinian, 186, 189 ; depicted, 194 
 
 K. 
 
 King of Anjou, 99 
 
 La Fontaine, 52 
 
 Lago di Gar da. 342 ; — Maggiore, 371 
 
 Landini, Ctiristotbro, 128 
 
 'Last Judgment,' by Nicholas of Pisa, 
 46 ; by Orcagna, 65 ; by Tintoretto, 312 
 
 'Last Supper,' by Giotto, 102 ; by Tinto- 
 retto, 320 
 
 Laurati Pietro, 108 
 
 'Lazarus,' Byzantine, 196 ; by Giotto, 202 
 
 Leaning Tower of Pisa, 61 
 
 Leo the Isaurian, 189 
 
 Leonidas, by Perugino, 11 
 
 Libraria, Sienna, 48 
 
 Lido (The) of Venice, 225-6, 268-70 
 
 Lippi, Works of, 124 ; Character, 127 
 
 Loggetta of Sansovino, Venice, 220 
 
 Loggia., 73 ; de' Lanzi, Florence, 87 ; of 
 the Vatican, 97 
 
 Longhi, 262 
 
 Loredan Palace, Venice, 228 
 
 Lorenzetti, 53 ; Fi-escoes by, 63 
 
 Louis of Orleans, 64 
 
 Louvre, Gallery of the, 14 
 
 Love, 21-2 ; Lord of, 22 
 
 'Love and Chastity,' painted by Peru- 
 gino, 14 
 
 Luigi, Count Piero, 257 
 
 Luitprand, Bishop, quoted, 94 
 
 Lynch Law, 87 
 
 Lysippus, 88 
 
 Luini— Pupil of da Vinci, 353 ; Works 
 of, compared with Raphael's, 353, 355; 
 with Leonardo's, 354; in the Brera 
 Gallery, 355 
 
 M. 
 
 Machiavelli, Tomb of, 103 ; 'Prince,' 336 
 
 'Madame Bovary,' 81 
 
 'Madonna'— by Guido of Sienna, 49 ; Duc- 
 cio, 51 ; Simone Memmi, 53 ; a Mediae- 
 val Artist, 60 ; Rico of Candia, 98 ; 
 Cimabue, 99 ; Giotto : 'Visitation of 
 — ', 102,200; 'Coronation of—,' 104; 
 Pollaiolo, 123; Story of, by Ghirlan- 
 daijo, 128; Fra Angelico, 134; Statue, 
 by M. Angelo, 149; Raphael: '— of 
 the Goldfinch,' 140, '—of the Tribune,' 
 154, ' — della Seggiola,' 154, 'Marriage 
 of — ,' 356 ; Francia, 171 ; Annibale 
 Caracci, 173 ; Domenichino, 176 ; Gui- 
 do, 178 ; Byzantine, 185 ; Tintoretto, 
 254; John Bellini, 282; on Tombs at 
 Verona, 337-8 ; Luini, 355 ; Correggio, 
 357 ; Titian, 'Nativity of — ,' 358 
 
 'Magdalen,' by Giotto, 202 
 
 Maier, quoted, 265 
 
 Manetti, 118 
 
 Manichseans, The, 189 
 
 ]\[anni, Gian Nicola, 11 
 
 Mantegiia, 130 ; Frescoes by, 202 
 
 Marco Corner, Doge, Tomb of, 244 
 
 Marini, 153 
 
 Marozzia, 60 
 
 ' Marriage Feast at Cana,' by Giotto, 201 , 
 by Tintoretto, 318 
 
 'Mars,' by Perugino, 11 
 
 'Martyrdom of St. Agnes,' by Domeni- 
 chino, 176 
 
 'Mary Stuart,' by Schiller, played in 
 Venice, 256 
 
 Masaccio, 117; Character and Works 
 of, 123-7 
 
 Masolino, 124 
 
 'Massacre of the Innocents,' by Tinto- 
 retto, 321 
 
 Matteo da Sienne, 53 
 
 'Maudit,' Le, 36, 198 
 
 Medicis, The, 111-116 ; Chapel of, 147-9 ; 
 Statue of Lorenzo, 149; Traits of, 15^-4 ; 
 Portrait of Cardinal Hippolyte, by Ti 
 tian, 156 
 
 Medusa, 88 
 
 Meleager and his Dogs, 61 
 
 Memmi, Simone, 53, 106 
 
 'Mercury,' Greek, 144 ; by John of Bo- 
 logna, 145 ; '— and the Three Graces,' 
 by Tintoretto, 298 
 
 Merode, M. de, '29, 31 
 
 Metayer System, 80 
 
 Michael Angelo, 7 ; 'Pieta' bv, 92 ; Tomb 
 of, 103 ; Works in Medici Chapel, 147-9 ; 
 Trials of, 149, 174 
 
 Michelotti, Biordo di, 8 
 
 Milan— Aspect of, 343 ; Women of, 343 ; 
 the Cathedral, 345 ; Patriotism of, 369 
 
 Miniscalco Chapel, 333 
 
 Misson, 264 
 
 Mocenigo, Doge, Character of, 279 
 
 Modern States, 211-16 (see Society) 
 
 Monastic Fervor, 26 
 
 'Montjoie' of Octave Feuillet, 77 
 
 Montanelli, 82 
 
 Montanists, The, 186 
 
 Monuments (see Tombs) 
 
 Morando, Paolo, 339 
 
 Morosini, Tomb of the Doge, 243 ; Fran- 
 cis — , 262 
 
 'Moses,' by M. Angelo, 150 ; ' — in the 
 Bulrushes,' by Bonifazio, 359 
 
 Murat, 29 
 
 in. 
 
 Naples, The Mastery of, 29 
 
 Napoleon I., 211 
 
 Napoleon in., 28, 29, 78 
 
 Narni, 3 
 
 'Nativity,' by Fra Angelico, 9 ; by Pe- 
 rugino, 12 ; by Nicholas of Pisa, 46 ; 
 by Giotto, 102; '— of the Virgin,' by 
 Masaccio, 129, by Luini, 355, by Titian, 
 358 ; '— of St. John,' by Masaccio, 129 ; 
 '— of St. John the Baptist,' by L. Ca- 
 racci, 173 
 
 'Neptune,' by John of Bologna, 169 
 
 Nereids, 88 
 
 Nerval, Gerard de, 22 
 
 Newspapers, Character of Italian, 78; 
 La Pace, 78 ; of French, 79 
 
 Niccolo deir Area, 167 
 
 Nicholas V., Pope, 131 
 
 Nicholas of Pisa— Tombs by, 7, 61; 
 Pulpit by, 44-6 ; Birth, 49 ; Works of, 
 116, 166 
 
 'Niobe'— Sentiment of, 70 ; Hall of, 139 
 
 ' Nun,' The, by Leonardo da Vinci, 155 
 
 'Nymph and Satyr,' by Giorgone, 157 
 
INDEX. 
 
 O. 
 
 Orcagna, Frescoes by, 64, 66 
 
 Ortano Canal, 227 
 
 Orvieto. 35. 36 
 
 'Othello,' 77 
 
 Otho of Frevsingen, 94 
 
 'Our Lady of the Kosary,' 175; '— of 
 
 Pitv; 178 
 Overbeck, 27 
 Oxford, compared with Venice, 218 
 
 Pace, La. 78 
 
 Padua— Aspect of, 198; the Prato, 198; 
 (see Churches.) 
 
 Palazzo — Perufjia : del Governo, 6 ; Flor- 
 ence : Vecchio, 8-1, 146, — Pitti, 151-2 ; 
 Sienna: Publico, 42; Verona: Pom- 
 peii. 33S 
 
 Palladio, 223 
 
 Palma the Younger, 223 
 
 Palma-Vecchio. T309 
 
 'Paradise,' by Tintoretto, 223 
 
 'Paradiso.' 22 
 
 Parmegiano, 173 
 
 Parodi, 205 
 
 Pasqvale PaoH, 77 
 
 'Passion,' The, by Nicholas of Pisa, 46 
 
 'Peace,' 297 
 
 Pecoroni. 67 
 
 Pellegrini, 173 : Chapel, 333 
 
 Perrault. Claude, 251 
 
 'Perseus,' by Cellini, 87 
 
 Perugia— Description of, 6 ; Feudal Con- 
 tests. 8 ; Military Depredations in. '?A 
 
 Perugino— Sentiment of the Art of, 8- 
 12; Portrait and Character, 1:3-14; 
 Originality of, 130, 171 
 
 Pesaro. Doge, Tomb of, 247 
 
 'Peter of Verona,' by Domenichino, 176 
 
 Petrarch, 24, 67 
 
 Phidias. 88 
 
 Philip n. of Spain, Portrait by Titian, 
 156 
 
 Photius, 186 
 
 Piazza— Florence : — della Signoria, 84, 
 — Annunziata, 73 ; Venice: — di San 
 Marco, 219-20 
 
 Piers Plowman, quoted. 67 
 
 'Pieta, bv M. Angelo, 92, 150 
 
 Pietro d'Or%ieto. 63 ; — di Cortona, 153 
 
 Pinturicchio, 48, 130 
 
 Pisa, Maritime Importance of, 49; Aspect 
 of, 56 ; Duomo, 58-60 
 
 Pisani, 277 
 
 'Piscine Probatique,' by Tintoretto, 319, 
 322 
 
 Pistoija, 160 
 
 Pius il., History of, painted by Pintu- 
 ricchio, 48 
 
 Placidia, in Byzantine art, 195 
 
 'Plenty,' 297 
 
 Politian, 128 
 
 Politics— Of Italy in general, 28-36, 179- 
 80: Garibaldi, 28: Napoleon, 28; Pa- 
 triotism of Women. 29; Policy of 
 Piedmont toward Naples, 29 ; Nature 
 of the Revolution, ;30, «0 : Anecdotes 
 of Popular Sentiment, 31-3 : Feeling 
 against the Priests, 3:3-4 ; Estimate of 
 the Clergy, 36 ; of Florence. 78-9 ; of 
 Constantinople under the Emperors, 
 
 186-92: Number of Citizens enjoying 
 Political Rights in the XVI. Century, 
 212 : of Venice, 257 ; of Lombardy. 
 367-71 
 
 Pollaiolo, 117. 122. 125 
 
 Pope, The, Caricatures of, 78, 370 ; Per- 
 severance of. 82 
 
 Poi'denone. 223 
 
 •Power.' 222 
 
 Prato. The, of Padua. 193. 203 
 
 •Presentation of the Boy Jesus,' by Cas- 
 paccio. "284; '—Virgin,' by Titian, 304 
 
 Press, The. (See Newspapers.) 
 
 Primaticcio, 88 
 
 Procopius, 187 
 
 Procuraties, The, Venice, 230 
 
 Prode cV Italia, Un, 77 
 
 'Prophets,' by Perugino, 11 
 
 Provence, 3 
 
 Pulci, 125 
 
 a. 
 
 Quercio, Jacopo della, 117 
 
 'Rape of Europa,' by Veronese, 300 
 
 'Rape of the Sabines,' by John of Bo- 
 logna, 87 
 
 Raphael. 11 : Development of, 15 ; in 
 relation to Giotto. 103, 202 ; his Pagan- 
 ism, 154-5 ; Portraits by, 156 ; 'Saint 
 Cecilia,' 170 ; 'Marriage of the Virgin,' 
 356 
 
 Ravenna, General Aspect of, 180-1 ; By- 
 zantine Character of, 182. (See 
 Churches.) 
 
 Religion, Difference between the Spirit 
 of Protestant and Catholic, 35 ; of the 
 Venetians, 265 
 
 Ren an, 198 
 
 'Repast at the House of Levi,' by Vero- 
 nese. 310 
 
 'Repose of the Virgin,' by Correggio, 
 357 
 
 'Resurrection,' by Tintoretto, 321 
 
 Revolutions. (See Politics.) 
 
 Rico of Candia, 98 
 
 Ricci, Guido, 53 
 
 Riccio, 205 ; Candelabra by, 208 
 
 Ridolfi, Lives by. 301 
 
 Rio, quoted, 13, 353 
 
 Rizzo, 222 
 
 Robbia, Lucca della. 117 
 
 Romanes, The Torments of the, 24 
 
 Roselli, 130 
 
 Rosmini, 78 
 
 Rosso, S8 
 
 Rothschild, 110 
 
 Sabellius, 106 
 
 Sacchetti, 67, 108 
 
 'Samson," -209 
 
 Sansovino. 2-23 : Decorator of San Anto- 
 nio, Padua, -205 : Loggetfa of in Ven- 
 ice, 2-20 ; Staircases by, 222 ; other 
 works, 2^23 
 
 Sanudo, 259 
 
 Sarpi, Paolo, 78 
 
 Sarto, Andrea del, 117 ; Sentiment of the 
 Art of, 158 
 
384 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 Savonarola, 13-14, 72, 131 
 
 'St. Barbara," 53 ; bv Palma VeccMo, 310 
 
 St. Bernard, Authority of, 66 
 
 'St. Catherine.'' by Sodoma, 54 ; by Cim- 
 abue, 99 ; Visions of, 66 
 
 'St. Cecilia,' by Raphael, 170 
 
 'St. Christopher,' by Titian, 297 
 
 St. Dominic, Tomb of, 106 
 
 'St. Ephesiis,' bv Spinello d'Arezzo, 63 
 
 St. Felix, Chapel of at Padua, 206 
 
 St. John—'— the Evangelist,' by Giotto, 
 104; '—the Baptist.' by Ghirlandaijo, 
 128 ; Byzantine, 195 ; by Raphael, 140 ; 
 by Donatello, 143 ; by Guido, 177 
 
 'St. Joseph and the Virgin,' by Perii- 
 gino, 9 
 
 'St. Lawrence, Martyrdom of,' by Ti- 
 tian. 255 
 
 St. Mark— Convent of in Florence, 98 ; 
 Paintings of by Fra Bartolomeo, 158 ; 
 t»y Tintoretto, 222. 314-16; Church: 
 Object in the Landscape, 219, 227; 
 Compared with St. Sophia, 236 : Art 
 of, 237, 241 ; Interior, 238-240 ; View 
 from Tower, 270 ; Library of, 270 ; 
 Fete of, 238 
 
 'St. Mary Magdalen,' 98 
 
 'St. Petronius.' by M. Angelo, 167 
 
 St. Pierre, Abbe de, 8 
 
 'St. Roch among the Prisoners,' by Tin- 
 toretto, 323 
 
 'St. Sebastian.' by Perugino, 11 ; by 
 PoUaiolo, 122 
 
 St. Sophia. Church of. 191 
 
 St. Thomas, Patron of the Church, 105- 
 6 : in Bvzantine Art, 195 
 
 St. Trophine, Cloister of, 348 
 
 'Saint Ursula,' painted by Carpaccio, 
 28:^-4 
 
 'St. Vincent,' painted by Fra Bartolo- 
 meo, 159 
 
 Saint-Dedier, quoted, 265, 267 
 
 Sainte ChapeUe, 19 
 
 San Agostino, Perugia, 6 
 
 San Ambrogio, Milan, 348 
 
 San Antonio. Padua, 204-10 
 
 San Apollinare, Ravenna, 182 ; — in 
 Classe. 196 
 
 San Apostoli, Venice, 229 
 
 San Domenico. Bologna, 166-7 
 
 San-Giobbe, Venice, 251 
 
 San-Giorgio Maggiore, Venice, 219, 229 
 
 San Giovanni e Paolo, Venice, 242 
 
 San Giustina, Padua, 203 
 
 San Gregorio, Rome, 142 
 
 San Lorenzo. Florence, 146-7 
 
 San Luca, Venice, 229 
 
 San Marco. (See St. Mark.) 
 
 San Micheli, Architect, 331 
 
 San Miniato, Florence, 75 
 
 San Mose, A^enice, 229 
 
 San Petronio. Bologna, 168 
 
 San Rocco, Venice, 316 ; Scuola of, 317- 
 319 
 
 San Vital e, Ravenna, 192-4 
 
 San Zenone, Verona, 333-5 
 
 Santa Agatha, Ravenna, 194 
 
 Santa Anastasia, Verona, 332 
 
 Santa Croce, Florence. 98, 103^ 
 
 Santa Maria I'Antica, Verona, 335 
 
 Santa Maria dell' Arena, Padua, 100 
 
 Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan, 350 
 
 Santa Maria Novella, Florence, 98, 103- 
 107, 127 
 
 Santa Maria dell' Orto, Venice, 251 
 
 Santa Maria della Salute, Venice, 219 
 
 Scaligers, Tombs of the, 336 
 
 Scamozzi, 223 
 
 Sciences, Progress of the, 212-15 
 
 'School of Athens,' 97 
 
 Scott, Walter, 77 
 
 Sculpture, Comparison of Greek and 
 Modern, 145 
 
 Severus, 189 
 
 'Shower of Manna,' by Tintoretto, 319 
 
 'Sibyls,' by Perugino, 11 ; by Guercino, 
 141 
 
 Sienna, Caricatures sold in, 36 ; Scenery 
 of and Municipal History, 40-2; Ca 
 thedral, 43-8. (See Society and 
 Churches.) 
 
 Signorio, Cane, Sepulchre of, 336 
 
 Signorelli, Luca. 121, 130 ' 
 
 'Six Saints,' by Titian, 308 
 
 Society— in Florence during the Middle 
 Ages and the Renaissance. 24-5, 71-2, 
 84-7, 149 ; Traits of the Italian People, 
 35-7, 81-2, 162-6 ; Nature of the Social 
 Fabric, 38 ; in Sienna. 41 ; Repressive 
 Effect of Modern, 49-50 ; Siennese En- 
 thusiasm for Art. 51 ; Changes of in 
 Tuscany, 108-10; the Modern Eng- 
 lishman, 144 ; the Modern English- 
 woman, 164 ; in Constantinople, 186- 
 92; Modem Development of, 211-16; 
 Venetian, 233-6, 267-9, 262-8, 275-7; 
 Described by Aretino, 287-93 : in Mil- 
 an, 343 ; of Lombardy m general, 
 367-71 
 
 'Socrates,' by Perugino, 11 
 
 Soderini, 125 
 
 Sodoma, 54 
 
 'Solomon.' 210 
 
 Sovfis of Persia, 25 
 
 Spinelli, Parro, 69 
 
 Spinelli Spinello, 53 
 
 Spinello d'Arezzo, Frescoes by, 63 
 
 Stendhal, 343 
 
 Stilicon, Tomb of, 349 
 
 Strauss, 198 
 
 T. 
 
 Taddeo Pepoli, 167 
 
 Tarass Boulba. Story of, 24 
 
 Tartegno, Monument of, 167 
 
 Tasso, 174 
 
 Taurica, Barbarians of the, 148 
 
 Taxation in Venice, 257 
 
 'The Wicked Rich Man's Banquet,' by 
 Bonifazio, 309 
 
 Theatres— Venice : Benedetto, 255; La 
 Fenice, 256. Florence : Opera, 76 ; 
 Nicolini, 77; Management and Per- 
 formances. 76-7; Venice. 255-6 
 
 Theodora, 60, 187, 188 ; Depicted, 193 
 
 Theodoric. Tomb of at Ravenna, 181 
 
 Theophilus. Emperor, 188, 191 
 
 Tiepolo. 262. 265 
 
 Tintoretto— 'St. Mark,' 222, 223, 314-16" 
 'Crucifixion,' 250, 317, 324; 'Eve,' 316 
 'Worship of the Golden Calf,' 251, 312 
 'Last Judgment,' 312 ; Last Supper, 
 320; Works in the Ducal Palace 
 296-9 ; Compared with Veronese, 299 
 Life and Character, 312-14; His Ge- 
 nius, 317-18; Originality of, 319 
 'Marriage of Cana,' 318; 'Piscine Pro 
 batique,' 319, 322; 'Shower of Manna, 
 319 ; 'Resurrection,' 321 : 'Massacre of 
 
INDEX. 
 
 385 
 
 the Innocents,' 321 ; 'St. Roch anions^ 
 the Prisoners,' 323 ; Works in the Al- 
 berto, 323 
 
 Titian— 'Venus.' 141 ; Portraits by, 15G ; 
 'Mistress.' 158; Monument, 248; 'St. 
 Peter Martyr,' 249 ; Reproached by 
 Vasari. 273: Character, 301—3: -De- 
 scent from the Cross,' 303 ; 'Visita- 
 tion.' 303 ; 'Presentation of the Vir- 
 gin,' 304; Fidelity to Nature, 300-7; 
 
 'flabakkuk,' 308 ; 'David and Goliath,' 
 'Abraham and Isaac,' 'Cain and Abel,' 
 'Passage of the Red Sea,' 'Six Saints,' 
 308 ; itomage to Veronese, 341 
 
 Tombs— Of Battista Alberti, 103 ; Alfie- 
 ri, 103 ; Bettino dei Bardi, 104 ; Bene- 
 dict XT., 7; Bembo, 207; the Carrari, 
 207; Canova, 248; Dante, 103; Fili- 
 caija, 103 ; St. Francis, 17-21 ; Galileo, 
 103 ; Imperia, 142 ; Exarch Isaac, 190 ; 
 Marco Corner, 244 ; Machiavelli, 103 ; 
 Michael Angelo, 103 ; Doge Morosini, 
 243; Doge Pesaro, 247; St. Dominic, 
 160 ; Scatiijers, 330 : Cane Signorio, 336 ; 
 Stilicon, 349 ; Tartegno, 107 ; Theodo- 
 ric, 181 ; Titian. 248 ; Doge Valier, 247 ; 
 Vendremini, 246 ; Antonio Venner, 
 M4 ; Countess Zamoiska, 103 
 
 'Transfiguration,' by Perugino, 11 ; by 
 Raphael, 103 ; by L. Caracci, 173 
 
 Trebonius, 187 
 
 Tribune in the Uffizj, 139 
 
 THsagion, 189 
 
 Tritons, 88 
 
 'Triumph of Death,' by Orcagna. 64 
 
 'Triumph of Venice,' by Paul Veronese, 
 223 
 
 'Tubal Cain,' 93 
 
 Tullio Lombardo, 205 
 
 Turriano, Tomb of, 337 
 
 Turrita, jacopo da, 49 
 
 ITberti, The, 84 
 
 Uccello, Paolo, 117, 118 
 
 Ufflzj Gallery, 98 ; Contents of, 138-46 
 
 Ugolino, 148 
 
 V. 
 
 Valentine Visconti, 64 
 
 Valier, Doge, Tomb of, 247 
 
 Van Dyck, 140 
 
 Van Eyck, 11 
 
 Vasari— Quoted, 14, 57, 99, 100, 102, 123 ; 
 Works of, 140 ; on Titian, 273, 366 ; on 
 Antonello da Messine, 275 
 
 Velano, 209 
 
 Velasquez, Sketch of, in Milan, 300 
 
 Vendee, La, 30 
 
 Vendetta, The, 86 
 
 Vendramini, Doge, Tomb of, 246 
 
 Venice — Suburbs of and general aspect, 
 217-230; Grand-Canal, 219-268; Ab- 
 sence of the Conventional in, 221 ; 
 Streets and Squares of, 22S-;30, 261 ; 
 History of. 231-t) ; Conquests of, 234-6 ; 
 Influence of Oriental Art, 236 ; Monu- 
 ments of the Doges, 243-9 ; Light and 
 
 Atmosphere of, 252-3 ; Theatres, 255-6 ; 
 The Giudecca, '257 ; Taxation, 257 ; 
 Slaves' Quay, 260; Decline of, 262; 
 Courtezans, 265-C ; The Lido. 268-70 ; 
 Climate and Soil, 272 ; Compared with 
 Flanders, 273-6 ; Ancient Heroism of, 
 277 ; Independence of, 278 ; Academy 
 of the Fine Arts, 281, 309 ; Patrician 
 Sentiment, 285 ; Amusements of the 
 'Magnilici,' 287 j Aretino, 287-93; Al- 
 bergo, 323 ; Spirit of Venetian Art, 
 326-7 
 
 'Venice Queen,' by Veronese, 299 
 
 Venner, Antonio, Doge, Tomb of, 244 
 
 'Vernes,' by Botticelli, 130 ; '— de Med- 
 icj,' 140; '—with the Doge,' by Titian, 
 141 ; Greek, 144 
 
 Verocchio — Begins as Goldsmith, 117 ; 
 Statue of a cTiild. 146 ; Works in San 
 Lorenzo, 147 ; Statue of CoUeoni, 242 
 
 Verona— Aspect of, 328; The Amphi- 
 theatre, 329 ; Lombard Architecture 
 of. 330 ; the Duomo, 330 ; Paintings in, 
 338-41 ; (see Churches.) 
 
 Veronese, Paul — Angels in San Giustina, 
 204; Decorator of the Ducal Palace, 
 223; 'Adoration of the Magi,' 259; 
 ^ Ch'isailles ,'' 295; Character of his art, 
 299 ; 'Rape of Europa.' 300 ; 'Repast at 
 the House of Levi,' 'Apostles on the 
 Clouds,' 'Annunciation,' 310; Portrait 
 of Pasio Guariento, 339 ; 'Music,' 340 ; 
 Homage of Titian, 341 ; Works in the 
 Brera,^358 
 
 Vesale, Andrea, Portrait of, by Titian, 
 156 
 
 'Vie de Jesus,' 36, 198 
 
 Victor Emmanuel, 78 
 
 Victor Hugo, 198 
 
 Villani. The, 67 
 
 Vinci, Leonardo da, 53, 117, 122; 'The 
 Nun,' 155 J 'Mona Lisa,' 156, 3.54; 
 Works of, in Milan, 350-3 ; 'Last Sup- 
 per,' 350; 'Duke Sforza,' 351 ; Studies 
 in the Brera Gallery, 351 ; in the Am- 
 brosian Library, 351 ; Compared with 
 Raphael and M. Angelo, 351-2; Influ- 
 ence of on Contemporary Artists, 353 
 
 Virgil, 2 
 
 Virgin, The. (See Madonna.) 
 
 Virginia de Leyva, 156 
 
 'Virtue triumphant over Vice,' by John 
 of Bologna, 140 
 
 'Virtues,' by Pordenone, 223 
 
 'Visitation,' by Titian, 303 
 
 'Vision of Ezekiel,' by Raphael, 155 
 
 'Vita Nuova,' 22 
 
 Vitruvius, 222 
 
 Vivarini, The, 281 
 
 Voltaire, 78 
 
 w. 
 
 White Penitents of Italy, 66 
 Wellington, Duke of, quoted, 274 
 
 z. 
 
 Zamoiska. Countess, Tomb of, 103 
 Zeno, Carlo, 277, 279 
 
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 ** A story drawn from nature with the pen of a master." — Boston 
 Traveller. 
 
 *'A gem — an incident in the literary history of the world." — Troy Times, 
 
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