. . . “appiè del Casentino
Traversa un’ acqua c’ha nome l’Archiano
Che sovra l’Ermo nasce in Appennino.”
(Purg. 5, 96 ff.)
Early on the following morning we left the monastery1 of Camaldoli for the hermitage. It was a beautiful walk of about three miles, along a steep, paved path through the ancient pine forest. The air was cold but the sun was bright, and the trees emitted a strong resinous3 fragrance4. I have never walked under trees more stalwart in stature5, the stem of each straight, smooth and rounded as a shaft6, with branches loaded with hanging verdure jutting7 out in grander sweeps.
At one point of the road three large wooden crosses marked the limit which the hermits9 formerly10 from their side were not allowed to cross; from this side no woman was allowed to penetrate11 beyond them. But the story goes that a princess of the house of Medici, dressed in man’s clothing, once braved the restriction12. She visited the hermitage, with no further consequences, however, but that, having satisfied{78} her curiosity, she went and confessed to the Pope, and he bid her give money to build an additional cell in expiation13 of her crime, which, to this day, is designated by the armorial balls, the palle, of the Medici family.
The paved path mostly followed the course of the Fosso of Camaldoli which rises above the Eremo. Dante apparently14 looked upon this stream not as a tributary15 of the Archiano, but as the Archiano itself, for he lets Buonconte in Purgatory16 speak of the Archiano as “taking its rise above the hermitage.” The river came down between moss-grown rocks, carrying with it a stream of mountain fragrance, and the path which followed it ended on a wide grass-grown space, at one end of which stood the hermitage. And up here, in the midst of the forest, at an elevation17 of 3700 feet above sea level, and in a climate which these thin-skinned southerners talked of as cold and rough in the extreme, stood the twenty-four little stone cells of the hermitage, each inside the walled enclosure of its garden. Here in the depth of mountain solitude18, cut off from intercourse19 with the world, and restricted in their intercourse with each other, the hermits of Camaldoli lived the same life of seclusion20 and solitude which St Romuald considered the surest way of attaining21 to happiness and heaven. Here they lived, dwelling22 alone, eating alone and working alone, with the{79} conceptions of time and space obliterated23 as far as disregard of the ordinary interests of life will obliterate24 them, with no hope or expectation of change, a life in which time can mend and mar8 nothing.
We were told that all the cells were tenanted except the original cell of St Romuald, which is always kept standing25 empty. All the cells are constructed on the same plan. Each consists of a small house divided into two rooms opening out of each other, with an additional recess26 in which stands the bed. The windows and the door open on a small garden, which is surrounded by walls so as to close in the view. Each hermit2 attends to his own garden, in which he grows herbs and vegetables. The cooking for the whole settlement is done in an outhouse, and the food is brought round and handed in to each of the cells. Seven times in the twenty-four hours the hermits wander forth27 and assemble in church to pray together; otherwise they are alone.
We were shown over the church by a white-robed monk28, who readily talked of the smaller interests of life—of the severity of the winter, the daily routine, and the relics29 and pictures of the different chapels30. But he did not respond when I expressed regret at the severance32 of intercourse between the different existing settlements of the Order of Camaldoli, a severance{80} which is inevitably33 leading to the collapse34 of the whole organisation35. It may be part of these men’s attitude of mind, or it may be a self-imposed limitation, that any allusion36 to change is met by cheerful and unquestioning acceptance of things as they are. Is it that the future of their order has become a matter of indifference37 to them, or is it that a tacit agreement among them prevents them from discussing their own affairs with outsiders? The monk also showed us over the cell of St Romuald, which is unchanged, they say, except that the piety38 of a later age has covered the inside of its rough walls with panelling. On occasions this cell has been offered to distinguished39 visitors. It was so offered to St Francis, but he felt the honour too great to accept.
Many visitors in the course of centuries have visited this hermitage. Popes, emperors, men of piety and men of learning have prayed in its chapel31. And up here in the shade of these huge pines those conversations took place which the learned Cristofero Landini has described, when some of the ablest scholars of the Early Italian Renaissance40 stayed here together in the summer of 1468, and whiled away several days in learned philosophical41 discussion.
The Conversations of Camaldoli are remarkable42 chiefly for their learned interest, but their setting is attractive, as they enable us to{81} realise the friendly relations of some of the most distinguished men of the Medicean circle—men to whom the revival43 of learning and modern scholarship owes a debt of gratitude44. For these conversations take us back to the time when the Republic of Florence, following the example of the Republic of Venice, had become the home of several learned Greeks. The spirit of a new era was stirring in every department of human knowledge, and those who studied the works of Plato and of his expositors at first hand and with some thoroughness, showed a renewed interest in Virgil and Horace, Dante and Petrarch. The Greek writers were translated into Latin, and many of them in a Latin garb45 first saw the daylight of print. But the works of Latin and Italian authors likewise engrossed46 attention, and Italian itself once more was looked upon as a language capable of expressing the great thoughts of great men.
Among those who, according to Landini, met together at Camaldoli on a summer day of 1468, were several whose life-work was bound up in revising, editing and translating the great works of antiquity47. The first to arrive were the two young Medici, Lorenzo, afterwards surnamed the Magnificent, and his brother Giuliano, who was afterwards stabbed in the rising organised by the Pazzi. They were accompanied by Alemanno Rinuccini,{82} who is known for his translation of some of Plutarch’s Lives; by Donato Acciajuoli, the author of a commentary on Aristotle; by Donato’s brother Piero; by Marco Parenti, and by Antonio Canegiano, “most learned men,” Landini calls them, “who had studied eloquence48 for years and who had gained proficiency49 in philosophical discussion by means of arduous50 study.” They were resting at the hermitage when Landini describes himself as arriving. He brought his brother with him. Landini is chiefly remembered among us for his commentary on Dante, but he also wrote commentaries on Horace and Virgil. He taught Latin at the newly-founded Academy of Florence, and in later days he became Chancellor51 of the Republic.
The party had barely exchanged greetings when the news was brought that two other friends had arrived at the monastery, where they were leaving their horses to come up to the Eremo on foot, led by the prior Mariotto. The order of Camaldoli had recently lost a shining light in its general, Ambrogio Traversari, known as il famoso Greco, who not only read Greek but spoke52 it with fluency53. Mariotto was his pupil. The men he was conducting were Leone Battista Alberti, and Marsilio Ficino—men as different as possible in appearance and bearing, but who stand as{83} representative figures of the Italian Renaissance, each in a special direction.
Whoever came into contact with Leone Battista felt that the gods had bestowed54 on him the fulness of their gifts, for he set the mark of originality55 on whatever he handled. His many-sidedness in after days was only excelled by that of Lionardo da Vinci. As a mere56 youth, Leon Battista wrote a comedy which passed for a rediscovered classic; and he is the author of the first treatises57 on painting, sculpture and architecture that can lay claim to a scientific basis. He worked as an architect, and the front of Santa Maria Novella at Florence was his design. He was a famous talker, a man of clever sayings, and eloquent58 in praise of beauty wherever he found it—in art, in nature and in man. From youth upwards59 he was renowned60 for his agility61, and increasing years dealt kindly62 with his good looks. At the time of his coming to Camaldoli he was in the sixties.
Marsilio Ficino, whom he is here described as having met on his way from Rome, was the greatest Hellenist of his age and the keenest intellect among the older Florentine humanists. Small, frail63 and visionary, he combined in himself the qualities that distinguish and endear the typical scholar—patience, sagacity, preciseness, extreme modesty64 and a high tone of mental elevation. His fame{84} rests on his translation into Latin of the works of Plato, and he was the colleague of Landini at the Florentine Academy, where he taught Greek. In the large fresco65 of Domenico Ghirlandajo in Santa Maria Novella at Florence, Marsilio Ficino and Landini are both represented among the painter’s distinguished contemporaries.
Such were the men who met together at the hermitage of Camaldoli, upwards of four hundred years ago, rejoicing in the thought of spending a few days together. On the first day they rested. On the next they attended mass, and then they sallied forth into the forest, and there, under a spreading beech66, they sat down and Leone Battista opened the discussion. Starting from the fact that the responsibilities of public life were about to devolve on the two young Medici owing to the ill-health of their father, he spoke of the duties of a citizen, and passed on to compare the respective merits of a life of activity and of a life of contemplation. This was a favourite subject of discussion at the time, and Leone Battista ended by pronouncing in favour of contemplation, a view which was in accordance with Plato’s ideality and with the Christian67 exaltation of Mary above Martha. On the following day the same subject was discussed in the same company, and on the days after they spoke of the greatest good and of{85} the true aim of human existence. No doubt these Conversations are largely of Landini’s making, but they were much appreciated by his contemporaries, and Marsilio Ficino is known to have admired them greatly. They were often reprinted at that period; now they have fallen into oblivion, and only the student now and again disturbs the dust which accumulates round them on the bookshelf.
On leaving the hermitage we had intended ascending68 to the Prato al Soglio, from where there is a splendid view, and from there crossing the mountains by a path which led to Badia a Prataglia. But owing to the snow that lay behind the Eremo this was impossible, and we found ourselves instead on a grassy69 road skirting the mountain always at about the same level. From one point of this road we looked down on the huge monastery of Camaldoli; further along and the outlook was over apparently limitless masses of pine forest; further again and the slopes below us were clothed with beeches70, their leafless branches just touched by the first tinge71 of red. Finally we were out again on the bare mountain, with the panorama72 of the Apennines about us, and Serravalle with its tower hanging far below in the blue mist like a bird. The road now became a rough path over uneven73, mountainous ground, such as we had crossed on the previous day, but we were at a higher eleva{86}tion, and the surroundings of sky and scenery were proportionately grander.
I have often thought that the sky of different mountainous regions is different, just as the sea along different lines of the coast varies. Whether we have seen the Mediterranean74 in sunny weather or in rough, we carry away with us the impression of its restless readiness to run to froth be it counter to a breeze or against a jutting headland. Similarly the North Sea stays with us in its glassy reluctance75 to break, and the Atlantic in the mighty76 inherent roll of its waves. As great a difference in character belongs to the sky of different mountainous regions, though it is less easily fixed77 in word and thought. To me heaviness and sullenness78 seemed to characterise the sky of the Apennines; once it sank into the mountains, there it stayed. The obvious reason was the poor clothing of the soil and the want of running water; there were none of those surface currents which carry down and dissolve the mists of thick weather elsewhere. For once outside the forest region of Camaldoli, there was a marked want of trees and a marked want of water. The denudation79 of the soil is something terrible, and already in April many streams were running dry.
The path we followed had many beautiful outlooks, but there was a good deal of snow, and we had come far out of our way. We were{87} glad at last to catch sight of the white line of the driving road into Romagna winding80 in and out among the mountains below, for the days in April are short. In this case a shower of rain caused us to put on additional speed; we were down in the road before dark, and soon afterwards established in comfortable quarters at the Casa Rossi. This is no inn, in the ordinary sense of the word—the family let the upper part of their house in summer—but they took us in for a couple of nights and made us welcome.
Badia a Prataglia lies at about an hour’s distance below the pass of the driving road from the Casentino into Romagna. The place boasted of one of the oldest abbacies in the Apennines, which dated its foundation further back than St Romuald and Camaldoli. But in course of time the abbacy of Prataglia lost its standing, while that of the monastery of Camaldoli increased, with the result that the older abbey became a dependency of the newer monastery. At present nothing remains81 of the old settlement but the convent church. But Prataglia itself is a growing place. Its numerous houses lie scattered82 in groups up and down the valley, and there are several new villa83 residences belonging to families who come up from Romagna and Tuscany to escape the heat of the summer. A pension situated84 some distance{88} above the place on the hills is fast becoming a favourite summer resort.
The Rossi at whose house we stayed are the originators and the owners of a home industry which has considerably85 raised the standard of comfort throughout the district. The firm exports simple wooden furniture, the different parts of which are cut and carved to certain patterns in the various homes and fitted together on the premises86. That evening being Saturday, men were coming to the house bringing their week’s work, in exchange for which they carried away payment in money or payment in kind from the store kept by the Rossi. We were shown examples of the articles manufactured—chairs, stools, cradles and such like, all of the simplest shape. Among other things, we were shown a spinning-wheel, but we were told that the attempt to introduce it has failed. The Italian women prefer spinning from the distaff, and it seems obvious that they will continue to do so till the use of machines supersedes87 hand-labour.
Rain, wind, hail, a thunderstorm and a snowstorm, we experienced them all in the one day which we spent exploring the heights of the neighbouring pass. But with a good road within reach and food awaiting one under cover, battling with the elements for a time adds to one’s enjoyment88. Then the reflection came{89} that the snow prevented progress along the mountain paths, and we determined89 to return into the valley. We left Prataglia white in its wintry garb, and in the short space of an afternoon we passed from the nipping blasts of winter into the bright geniality90 of spring. Below Serravalle the falling snowflakes changed into driving mists. As the mountains receded91, the valley of the Arno lay before us, its vineyards and cornfields brown and golden in the light of the afternoon sun. We were bound for Poppi, which lies at about an hour’s distance up the valley from Bibbiena—“Poppi, the capital of the Casentino,” as Vasari called it.
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1
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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hermits
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| （尤指早期基督教的）隐居修道士，隐士，遁世者( hermit的名词复数 ) | |
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10
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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restriction
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| n.限制，约束 | |
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expiation
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| n.赎罪，补偿 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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tributary
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| n.支流；纳贡国；adj.附庸的；辅助的；支流的 | |
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purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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chancellor
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| n.(英)大臣；法官；(德、奥)总理；大学校长 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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fresco
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| n.壁画；vt.作壁画于 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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73
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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74
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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75
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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76
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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77
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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78
sullenness
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| n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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79
denudation
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| n.剥下；裸露；滥伐；剥蚀 | |
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80
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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81
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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82
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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83
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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84
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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85
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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86
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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87
supersedes
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| 取代，接替( supersede的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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89
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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90
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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91
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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