Wanderings in Italy

Front matter

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VICENZA, A PALLADIAN CORNER

I. Orta

. 11 n.

Saronno

. 17 in.

NOVAHA .

. 23

IV.

Varallo

. 26

V,

Vaeese .

. 32

VI.

COMO

. 35 vn.

ISEO

. 40 vni.

Brescia ,

. 48

IX.

Bergamo

. 68

X.

Bett-agio

. 66

CASTHT/FRANCO

. 234

Part V. TYROL, FRIULI AND NEW ITALY

I.

The Dolomites ....

. 243

II.

From Cortina to Pieve

. 251

III.

PiEVE Dl Oadore ....

. 255

IV.

Belltjno

. 264

V.

PORDENONE .

. 270

V.

Udine .

.

. 272

VII.

Aquileia

. 280

VIII.

Trent and Triesg

CE

. 283

Part I Piedmont-lombardy

ORTA

Often when entering Italy by the Simplon, I had thought of makmg a slight dHour and stopping at Orta. But my eagerness to reach Milan and Venice had always prevented this. As, however, this year I have not the leisure necessary for the delights of early autumn on the lagoon, I will turn the few days of liberty at my disposal to good account by visiting certain nooks and comers • around the lakes which are unknown to me Surely in this region, as throughout Latin territory, there must be exquisite scenery and interesting sanctuaries of art.

Accordingly, at Domodossola I left the express train which brings the traveller so swiftly to the Italian descent, that for a moment he is dazzled by the splendour of the sudden light, and I boarded a little train, the carriages of which seemed antediluvian after the luxurious sleeping car. It follows the old

line of Novara, which one used to take in former days on arriving by the Simplon diligence. The direct line to Lake Maggiore was not laid till after the opening of the tunnel. For some fifteen miles, the two railways run side by side, and some of the stations are indeed common to both. They part company at Cuzzago, and after crossing the Tosa and skirting the western base of Mottarone, we came out on Lake Orta, the ancient Cusio of the Romans.

A spot of infinite sweetness and charm 1 I am not sure, indeed, whether it is not the most perfect of all the Lombard lakes — for it may be included in the Lombard group, although, like the greater and more beautiful part of Maggiore, it is in Piedmontese territory. Less wild than Lugano, less voluptuous then Lario, less grandiose than Maggiore, it has more general harmony than any one of them. All the proportions are absolutely right ; there is not a discordant note. The wooded hills surrounding it follow the curves best adapted to the windings of the shores ; we cannot believe that the same hand drew these supple lines and the harsh profile of the mountains which seem to be thrusting back rude Germany into another world. Its island of San Giulio summarises all the various beauties of the Borromean isles. The point of Orta is hardly less graceful than the promontory of Bellagio. And the Lake has preserved a quality which is gradually passing away from its more illustrious rivals as they are invaded, transformed and disfigured by civilisation, namely : the calm of Nature. For hours one may listen to the lapping of the waters without hearing the vibrations of motor engines ; a single small steamer suffices for the service of the ports. The automobiles that venture so far from the highway as the quay of Orta are very few in number. It is one of the last comers in Italy left unspoilt by modernism and progress.

SITUATION OF ORTA 18

But, alas ! this will not be true for long ! The dwellers on its shores wish to attract tourists ; they form Committees of enterprise ; they are annoyed to hear their lake called Cenerentola (Cinderella), because it lies forgotten among its elder sisters. Before they have realised their ambitions let us enjoy the peace of a region where very soon the quiet languor of autumn days will be a memory of the past.

At present Orta is the ideal refuge of dreamers and real lovers. A haunt of peace, everything here invites to tenderness, without that perpetual beckoning of pleasure which makes Como so attractive to those who seek the illusion of love. Here, far from the crowd, one does not feel, as on the shores of Bellagio and Cadenabbia, that kind of external fascination and diffusion of individuality which makes one half unconscious and induces a certain intoxication. Here one spends days that seem empty days when nothing happens, but which will seem beautiful later because they were made up of happiness. We get used to happiness as to health so rapidly that we cease to notice it. The more saturated with it is the air we breathe, the more we assume that we have never breathed any other. Rather should we take note of our joys each evening, and mark with a white stone the hours when life was sweet and good !

Orta is delightfully situated at the foot of a sort of mountainous promontory, which leaves but scanty space for houses at its base on the shores of the lake. The little town is indeed but one long street parallel with the bank, interrupted in the middle by a shady piazza with a tiny town-haU. The slopes of the hiUs are studded with rich villas embowered in the luxuriant vegetation to be found in all the sheltered corners of the Italian lakes. Rhododendrons and azaleas of unusual vigour must show as magnificent bouquets of bloom in the spring. Ivory-petalled blossoms still linger among the polished leaves of the magnolias. In spite of a three months' drought, the trees are green ; the oleander especially, that lover of sultry summers, displays its sumptuous blossoms. The oleafragrans begins to perfume the gardens. By the roadside, fig-trees send forth their pungent odour ; between their broad leaves we catch sight of the glistening waters and of the little island of San Giulio, smiling and quivering in the brilliant light.

A boat will take us across to it in a few minutes. The glamour increases as we approach. Terraces and gardens seem to be hanging in space over the lake, in which the belfry and the high walls of the seminary are reflected to a great depth. The verdure of the foliage that enframes the houses gives an air of gaiety to the little island, the centre of a commune comprising several villages on the western and southern shores of the lake. As it contains the town-hall, the church and the burial ground, wedding and funeral processions come hither by boat as at Venice. The space is so restricted that buildings rise one above the other, and not an inch of ground is wasted. A single narrow street, or rather path between walls runs round the island. The general effect is highly picturesque. If Orta be doomed to disfigurement some day, here, I hope, is a comer which will perforce remain unchanged for a long time.

The basilica of San Giulio is an interesting church, founded, according to local tradition, in the fourth century. Some parts of it indeed — columns, capitals, bas-reUefs and frescoes — are very old. The most remarkable feature is a Romanesque pulpit of black marble, on which are carved the attributes of the m o

H O

GAUDENZIO FERRARI 16

Four Evangelists and two curious panels representing Christianity and Paganism, under the respective symbols of a grifi&n and a crocodile, alternately triumphing the one over the other. If this interpretation given me by the custodian be correct, the sculptor was an artist with a prudent eye to the future. There are numerous frescoes on piUars and vaults. The best, by Gaudenzio Ferrari, entirely cover one of the chapels. On the end wall : The Virgin surrounded by Saints and The Martyrdom of Saint Stephen ; on the ceiling, the Four Evangelists ; in the vault, four Prophets ; on the pillars of one side, Saint Michael and Saint Apollonia, and on the other, Saint Julius and one of his Companions. The figures, as Burckhardt has already said, are finely executed. But it is to be regretted that they were superposed on earlier works, traces of which are still to be seen. Indeed in certain places we see remnants of primitive decorations over which two subsequent paintings have been laid. It is very desirable that an attempt should be made to bring these old Gothic and Romanesque decorations once more to light, and to transfer Ferrari's works, which have suffered greatly from the ravages of time, and the folly of visitors who have scribbled their names upon them. We may console ourselves with the thought that this is not a vandalism peculiar to our own times ; the custodian showed me with pride inscriptions of 1536 and 1541, that is to say, almost contemporary with the work itself. He then wished to take me into the crypt where the body of Saint Julius rests, and into the sacristy to see the bone of a monstrous serpent : for there is a legend that the island was long uninhabitable owing to the reptiles which swarmed in it. However, I took advantage of a moment when he went forward to meet some fresh visitors to steal away from him. Outside there was a radiant blaze of sunshine. Not often do we see a day so pure and so luminous. Hills and villages were reflected with the utmost precision on the unruffled surface of the lake. The water is a smooth green suggesting molten emeralds, and recalling Dante's beautiful simile : fresco smeraldo allorache si jiacca} The garden scents were wafted in warm gusts of sudden sweetness, sometimes so intense that the boat seemed to be passing through a perfumed cloud.

But day was beginning to fade, and I hoped before evening to climb the wooded hillside which forms a headland on the lake, and culminates in a Sacro Monte, of which there are so many in this region. Its twenty chapels, in which painted terra-cotta groups set forth the life of Saint Francis of Assist are not very remarkable ; but their surroundings are exquisite. They stand in a sort of park which crowns the summit ; at each turn in the walks there are views of different parts of the lake. The traveller instinctively recalls the paths of the Villa Serbelloni which overhang the three arms of Lake Lario in turn ; but here the effect is more austere, because there are so many religious symbols and so few flowers. The very trees seem to take on a certain solemnity. Huge pines with trunks straight and smooth as columns rise in the soft twilight air, a fraternal race, vibrating to the same breezes and quivering with the same tremors. The little white chapels seem to be leaning against the sturdy pillars of their cathedral. A noble quietude reigns on this summit whence the eye surveys the whole panorama. The villages that nestle at the foot of the slopes are already blurred by the blue dust of twilight. The lake sinks into the bottom of the dark cup of mountains * Green as an emerald freshly broken.

LUINI AT SARONNO 17

which encircle it with their harmonious lines. On the further shore, above Pella, which slumbers in its woods of chestnut and walnut, rises the utmost peak of Mount Rosa.

Together with the falling darkness, I descend towards Orta, to the alhergo whose embowered terrace dominates the town. Gradually silky veils are drawn across the sky. A fine mist rises from the overheated earth, softens all contours, and wraps things in a supple mantle of velvet. The hills seem at once to advance and to recede. The twinkle of stars animates the glistening waters, and a moon in its first quarter throws a thin track of fire across them. Here and there a light quivers on the quay of Orta. The dim trees slumber motionless in the languid air.

SARONNO

I HAD also long wished to visit Saronno, for here one really learns to know Luini, the good Luini, whose gentle, rhythmic name so aptly evokes the poetry of the lakes on whose shores he was born and lived and died. Nowhere else has he left so many frescoes ; and he is above all a frescante. He who judges Luini only by his easel pictures knows not the true genius of the artist, who was unable to pour out his tender, ardent, spontaneous soul within their narrow limits.

It is true that at Milan one can get an idea of his art from the works in San Maurizio, in the Brera, where

C there are numerous fragments, notably the admirable Entombment of Saint Catherine, and in S. Maria della Passione, the church, whose rococo faQade bears the haK obliterated inscription immortalised by Maurice Barres : Amori et dolori sacrum } We gain a deeper insight into it at Lugano, in the modest church of S. Maria degli Angeli, where he painted his largest composition on the-^wall of the rood-screen. The many episodes of the Passion are represented in full, and more than five hundred persons figure in the various scenes. The general effect is a little cold, and we are conscious of the difficulty the artist must have had in co-ordinating a composition so complex and dramatic ; but there are exquisite details, and Luini rarely conceived more touching figures than the pathetic Saint John making his promise to the dying Saviour, or the Magdalen kneeling at the foot of the Cross and smiHng in ecstasy through her golden hair.

The space to be covered at Saronno was even greater ; but it was divided up into a series of panels and the painter was able to distribute his work as he pleased. Untrammelled by a time limit, or, it would seem, by any pre-determined programme, Luini was governed by no rule but that of his own imagination. He put his whole self into the work, with all his qualities and all his defects.

To get to Saronno, one has to cross a corner of the Lombard plain, on those dusty roads which soon become monotonous, because they run for the most part through two green hedges. This fertile country would be a beautiful sight ... if one could see it, as said Abbe Coyer, who sighed for the highways of France, where the trees which adorn and shade them do not obscure the prospect. Still, there are delightful corners, and idyllic ^ A shrine for love and pain.

FRESCOES AT SARONNO 19

landscapes, notably where the thick ribbon of vine-branches winds on either side of the road, hanging from tree to tree. These vines clinging to elms have inspired poets throughout the ages ; Ovid invoked them in one of the pieces in his Amores to express his fondness and his regrets in the absence of Corinna :

On this September morning when summer is in its death-throes, a delicate light plays in the atmosphere and floats in gentle waves over the autumnal landscape. The magnificent plane-trees, a double avenue of which leads from the town of Saronno to the church, are bathed in a golden light. The traveller treads on a thick carpet of dead leaves ; there is something melancholy and bitter in their sUghtly acrid scent.

And here we have one of those delectable sanctuaries of art, in which we discover the soul of an artist under an insignificant or mediocre exterior. There have been hardly any changes here for four centuries ; cosmopolitan snobbery has not yet found its way here ; and the student may spend long hours undisturbed by tourists or guides.

The whole of the end of the church was decorated by Luini. First, there are two figures of saints : S. Eoch and S. Sebastian ; in the passage leading to the choir : The Marriage of the Virgin and Jesus among the Doctors ; in the choir itseK : The Adoration of the Magi and The Presentation in the Temple ; on the pendentives and the upper walls : The Sibyls, The Evangelists and The Fathers of the Church ; in a little sacristy behind the choir : S. Catherine and S, Apollonia and on pieces of canted wall, two angels bearing a cup

1 The elm loves the vine and the vine will not leave the elm. Why should I be so often parted from my mistress ?

c 2 and a chalice ; finally, in a passage in the cloisters : The Nativity.

Contemplating Luini's works, I am nearly always conscious of three successive impressions. First, a sense of delight which the general harmony of tints and colours gives to the eye. As I entered the choir, the word delicious sprang to my lips. Then, as I looked more carefully, disillusionment began : I thought the groups confused, the faces often inexpressive, the perspective mostly false. The landscapes which had charmed me at the first glance are badly constructed, and sometimes a little ridiculous : in the Presentation in the Temple the mound on which stands the church of Saronno shaded by a sickly palm-tree, is really childish in composition ; in the Adoration of the Magi, the string of animals loaded with odd little valises attests a puerility bordering on the grotesque. The heads are often commonplace and the attitudes rigid ; even the figure of Mary in the Adoration of the Magi and the Marriage of the Virgin is insignificant and wholly without -character. But when, after examining the works in detail, I stand back and try to sum up a general impression, Luini triumphs once more. There are so many charming tones so cunningly graduated, so much sweetness and suavity everywhere, that I can no longer criticise. I am conquered, as I am by a certain kind of music the defects and mediocrity of which I recognise, but which captivates me by the very first bar when I hear it. I no longer notice the faults which shocked me ; my eye lingers only on the exquisite things which liuini has lavished here as elsewhere. In the Adoration of the Magi, for instance, I forget the poor arrangement of the groups in my admiration for a beautiful page with a Leonardesque head, and for the little

LEONARDO'S INFLUENCE 21

angels of the vault. It was in isolated figures such as these that Luini always excelled. And I would willingly give the great frescoes of the choir for the S. Catherine or the Angels of the sacristy.

Nowhere are the soul of the painter, his sweet and tender philosophy, his smiling faith, more clearly manifested than here. It seems as if in this sanctuary somewhat remote from the world he had escaped more than was his wont from the yoke of Leonardo, and had allowed his own heart to speak. We divine what Luini might have become if he had been left to himself ; and think that had Leonardo never come to Milan, its school might have risen to the same heights as the other Italian schools, and might have found in Luini a master equal to Titian, Correggio or Raphael. But the great Florentine had only to appear and he triumphed. All original inspiration was checked. The qualities of health, grace and vigour characteristic of the old Lombard masters vanished as by magic before a glory which at once became a tyranny. Artists thought only of imitating the inimitable ; thenceforth they never painted a face without giving it the smile and the enigmatic eyes of La Gioconda. This influence is so strong in Luini 's pictures, that several of them were long attributed to Da Vinci.

In his frescoes, on the other hand, Luini contrived to preserve his independence to a much greater degree. Nothing, indeed, differs more essentially from the slowly conceived and minutely retouched work of the subtle Leonardo than the swift, spontaneous art of fresco, where the painter has to work on the fresh plaster which allows neither of hesitation nor corrections. The one master strove to suggest on his canvas the most mysterious sentiments of the soul, and to express all the complicated learning of his brain ; the other covered the walls of churches after the manner of a simple and faithful craftsman who loved his art and lived for it alone. Luini was no intellectual ; he produced his works as the beautiful trees of his country yield their luscious fruits. This is more especially evident in his youthful works, v/hen he had as yet experienced no foreign influence, as, for instance, in that Bath of the Nymphs, the free and very modern handling of which sometimes recalls Puvis de Chavannes and Renoir. There is an innocent charm about these maidens emerging from the bath or disrobing to enter it. Their muscular limbs, their supple, velvety skin, everything about them proclaim the joy of life under happy skies. At a time when war and pestilence were ravaging the province, he contrived to live at Milan in a kind of dream, so obscurely that we know little of his biography beyond what may be gleaned from the dates on his canvases and frescoes. Either from necessity, as tradition has it, or perhaps simply from a love of quietude, he preferred a life in the calm retreat of monasteries, where, no doubt for sums paltry but sufficient to free him from material cares, he could give himself up entirely to his beloved calling, la mirdbile e clarissima arte di pittura?- He loved more especially the sanctuary of Saronno, where he seems to have made two long sojourns. Nowhere, at any rate, even before the vast fresco of the rood-screen at Lugano, have I felt so near to him as here. As long ago as October 4, 1816, Stendhal came to see these " touching " frescoes, which he declares he " admired so greatly." How could he have said on another occasion, in reference to Lombard beauty, that " no great painter has immortalised it by his pictures, as Correggio immortalised the beauty ^ " The admirable and lucid art of painting."

THE LOMBARD TYPE 23

of Romagna and Andrea del Sarto that of Florence " ? I think, on the contrary, that Luini has perfectly expressed the beauty described by Manzoni : molle a un tratto e maestosa che hrilla net sangue lomhardoj^ and especially in those women with opulent forms, languorous eyes, quivering nostrils and fresh cheeks like ripe fruits.

When he spoke thus Stendhal seems to have forgotten Leonardo da Vinci, who, coming from the suave but somewhat austere Tuscany, felt the seduction of Lombardy intensely, and fixed the sensual grace of her youths on his canvases. True, he added to this the subtle idealism and the love of eloquence which are the essence of Florentine art. Each artist interprets reality through his personal vision. A truism often repeated and expressed by Goethe in a form which loses in translation : " Reality is the fertilising soil in which flourishes the marvellous plant of art, whose roots must strike down into the real, but whose stem must blossom in the ideal." The stem flowers at a greater or a lesser height, according to temperament. Luini's blossoms are within reach of our hands ; we can easily gather them and inhale their perfumes.

NOVABA

Why had I hitherto felt distrustful of Novara % There are towns, just as there are persons, whom we

1 " At once soft and majestic, which shines in the Lombard race."

instinctively avoid for years, and finally regret having left unknown so long, when chance brings us acquainted with them. I imagined No vara as a dreary, commonplace town of the Piedmontese plain, far from mountains and rivers, crowned by a hideous cathedral, and interesting chiefly as possessing an excellent buffet with famous cellars in a great railway station always crowded with trains, at the junction of numerous lines.

This year, being forced by my itinerary to spend several hours there, I determined to explore it hastily. And now I have spent two most agreeable days there, lodged in an old hotel into one room of which one might easily put a whole Parisian flat, and where the cooking and the wines were first-rate. The town is cheerful and well built ; and as the walks are dehghtful, I was consoled for the scarcity of works of art.

There are, it is true, an ancient Baptistery and a Romanesque church ; unfortunately, there is scarcely anything left of the primitive basilica, which has gradually been transformed into a rich modern building, with an atrium of Corinthian columns in Simplon granite. There is also the church of San Gaudenzio with the famous belfry by Antonelli of which the Novarese are so proud — -a structure almost as ugly as the building by the same architect at Turin. I might further have found in the churches and pubHc galleries some pictures by Ferrari ; but it would have been futile to seek out second-rate examples of the master when on my way to Varallo. I preferred to loiter in the little streets and above all, to take a walk round the town.

Among the numerous Italian cities which have transformed their ancient fortifications into shady avenues, not one has solved the problem more successfully Here we have not merely a circular boulevard planted

EVENING AT NOVARA 25

with chestnut trees which are burnt up by the summer heat, and present a lamentable appearance in September, but a superb girdle of gardens and lawns with splendid trees. About the ivy-covered red walls of the ruined castle one may wander as in the alleys of an ancient park. North and west, the view extends as far as the line of the great Alps that spread out fan-wise around the Lombard plain ; the panorama is almost the same as that we see from the roof of Milan Cathedral. Here, indeed, the majestic mass of Mount Rosa is even more sharply defined ; when the atmosphere has been cleared by a storm, its peaks stand out against the azure with the precision of a piece of goldsmith's work. Sometimes in the warm hours of the day when the foremost mountains are bathed in mist, it emerges alone, like some dream summit set in a mysterious ocean ; and in the evening, when the blue shadow is creeping over the plain, it flames fantastically, a fiery flower in the twilight. The fall of day, seen from these ramparts of Novara, is full of serenity. And the evenings are delicious in these nocturnal gardens propitious to intertwined shadows, at moments when the desire latent in every soul for the help of another soul to still the anguish of solitude before the mystery of things awakens. Round the old trees half stript of their leaves and the withered grasses hovers the odour of autumn, the very melancholy of which attunes the soul to love.

CHAPTER IV .

VAUALLO

Nothing could be more delightful than the journey from No vara to Varallo. The traveller passes first through the deep undulations of the rice fields, the close, heavy ears of which are lying in swathes, like a stormy sea suddenly congealed. A gentle light silvers the morning landscape and plays through the fine mist so characteristic both of Lower Piedmont and the Lombard plain, where, as Michelet says : " fever and dream seem to hover." The mountains on the horizon are dimly seen ; the snowy outline of the Alps is barely distinguishable .

Towards Romagnano the hills begin suddenly, and very soon increase in height. The route rejoins the Sesia, and follows its course as far as Varallo. This valley, one of the loveliest of those which descend from the chain of Monte Rosa, is both fertile and industrial. Fruit trees, lusty vines heavily garlanded, and forests of chestnut trees cover the country with verdure. There are few isolated farms, but many big market-towns, prosperous and inviting of aspect after the Italian fashion. Tacitus in his Germania noted that the inhabitants of the further slopes of the Alps space out their houses, whereas the Latins group them together as much as possible to form villages, always with an eye to regularity and general effect. The Latin ideal has ever been urban life, the city. All the amiable and social instinct of the race is manifested in this grouping, which affords greater facility of existence and more opportunity for gaiety. The inhabitants we encounter on the road or in the villages

ASPECT OF VARALLO 27

are healthy, well-to-do, and full of the joy of life. The peasant women wear curious costumes of brilliant colours ; they smile as they pass or salute us with a gracious gesture. One feels that all these folks love the sun and that a few drops of rain or a little fog would suffice to drive them indoors. The Italians might adopt the device I have read on certain sun-dials : Sine sole silio}

After leaving Borgosesia the mountains close in ; the valley becomes more picturesque. And soon Varallo appears, superbly placed. Its cheerful roofs are clustered together at the bottom of the gorge, dominated by verdant hills set against lofty mountains. The appearance of the town is very individual. Although it is quite close to Monte Rosa, it is unlike the usual small Alpine town. It boasts large, well-built houses, important shops, open-air markets well stocked with flowers and fruit. There are also comfortable modern hotels, but none of these can rival the ancient hostelry which had been recommended to me, a house which still deserves its centenarian fame. Here the traveller takes his meals on a terrace with old world decorations shaded by Virginian creeper, and overhanging the Sesia, just at its point of junction with the Mastallone torrent, whose famous trout figure on every bill of fare. But, indeed, everything here is delicious : fish, partridges, peaches, grapes as fragrant as those of my native place, that valley of the Drome dear to the epicure, where Dauphiny and Provence meet to offer the rich produce of their soil. Once again I note many affinities between my own land and the Alpine regions situated at the same altitudes of from twelve to twentyfour hundred feet. Last year these impressed me in Cadore, whence Titian sent to his beloved Aretino ^ Without sun I am silent.