WHATEVER the medieval atmosphere of Florence may have been, and when I was there the exterior¹ appearance of the central heart was obviously somewhat akin² to its fourteenth- and fifteenth-century predecessor³, to-day its prevailing⁴ spirit is thoroughly⁵ modern. If you walk in the Piazza⁶ della Signoria or the Piazza del Duomo or the Via dei Calzaioli, the principal thoroughfare, you will encounter most of the ancient landmarks—a goodly number of them, but they will look out of place, as in the case of the palaces with their windowless ground floors, built so for purposes of defense⁸, their corner lanterns, barricaded⁹ windows, and single great entrances easily guarded. To-day these regions have, if not the open spacing of the modern city, at least the commercial sprightliness¹⁰ and matter-of-fact business display and energy which is characteristic of commerce everywhere.

 

I came to the Piazza della Signoria, the most famous square of the city, quite by accident, the first night following a dark, heavily corniced street from my hotel and at once recognized the Palazzo Vecchio, with its thin angular tower; the Loggia dei Lanzi, where in older times public performances were given in the open; and the equestrian¹¹ statue of Cosimo I. I idled long here, examining the bronze slab¹² which marks the site of the stake at which Savonarola and two other Dominicans were burned in 1498, the fountain designed by Bartolommeo Ammanati; the two lions at the step of the Loggia and Benvenuto Cellini’s statue of “Perseus” with the381 head of Medusa. A strange genius, that. This figure is as brilliant and thrilling as it is ghastly.

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