WANDERERS’ NOTE BOOK

Dominion, Volume 20, Issue 72, 18 December 1926, Page 26

WANDERERS’ NOTE BOOK

(BY CHARLES WILSON)

MURE ITALIAN IMPRESSIONS. (.Specially Written tor The Dominion.J

It is an almost intolerably sultry Rome which 1 explore for a few ever memorable days. The one fairly cool spot 1 find in a queer half-underground wine shop on the picturesque Piazza Spagna, with its Keatsian and Shellevan associations, where artists ol many races still daily congregate where so much of the true Roman life is to be studied It is all an unforgettable experience, but the inevitable day comes along when we must “take the cars” for historic Florence, that ancient and memory-haunted home of the Medici, and swelter for far too many hours, and utter, as I confess 1 do, countless objurgations at the foul, sulphurous smoke which is poured forth in never-ceasing volume from the briquettes-burning giant engine.

Perugia and Assisi. At Perugia, about midway 'twist Rome and Florence, we have a brief spell at an ancient city for ever famous in the history of European and especially Italian art, as the special home of the Umbrian school of painting, of which Pietro Vanucci, better known as II Perugino, was the central figure. At Perugia there is a big exodus of tourists, mainly American, who are bound for the quaint little old medieval city of Assisi, whose name is rendered world-famous by its having been so long the dwelling place of the bird-loving St. Francis, who founded the great Franciscan Order in the rules of poverty, chastity, and obedience, three virtues by no means universally honoured by -his clerical, brethren of the time Half-mad good St. Francis may have been, indeed, for a time he was actually confined as a mental patient. But frail of body, unbalanced in mind, so his enemies declared, his was a truly spiritual personality which made him first respected, next revered, and, in his later life, well nigh worshipped by common people, by whom, after all, saints as well as ordinary mortals are perhaps most fairly judged. He must have been a man of consuming energy. To Morocco and Cairo was, for the Italian of liis dav, almost as far a cry as to Cathay. But the frail, gentle-soul-ed, but blazinglv ardent preacher from the Umbrian hill town went fa. afield to carry his mission of love, charitv chastity, and all the virtues, and if ever a priest earned his canonization it was lie whom, in a month or two, so many thousands of pilgrims to Assisi are to honour. Five Days in Florence.

Five days on the banks of the historic Arno 'Tis a lamentably brief sojourn but one rich in interesting experience. The trouble is, there is such an embarras de richesses from which the sightseer must choose. After a couple ol days in the Ufizzi Gallery and in the never-ending salons of the Pitti Palace, I confess to some sympathy with an American gentleman who has adopted the popular English expression “fed up,” and applies it in particular to the surfeit of art here provided. Curiously enough, he shares mv mild resentment against our worthy guide for his unfailing selection of world-famous pictures, such as the Primavera and Birth of Venus, for over-lengthy discourse, and his ignoring of the smaller Botticellis, the exquisite little Perugino head in the same room, all of which infallibly provoke in the picture lover’s mind a breaking of the last Commandment. There are so many, so very many, pictorial beauties in these Florentine galleries that it is difficult to state one’s preferences. Here is food ample enough for three months of leisurely study and quiet enjoyment. But not, alas, for a travelling New Zealander, whose time is limited, and who, perforce, must keep liis eye on that letter of credit which, like the magic skin of a certain Balzacian romance, is apt to shrink so mysteriously and vet so materially.

People or Pictures? To me the special charm of Florence lies, not in its countless art collections, but in leisurely contemplation of the modern Florentine and liis ways. Early in my stay on the banks of the muddy Arno, J have what at first seemed a great misfortune, tbe temporary loss of my Blue Guide to Florence In reality it proves rather what Artemus Ward would have called “a sweet boon,” for no longer am I haunted bv the fear that I shall miss this, or that or the other sight, to sav nothin" of the advantage that I no longer “hig about” a bulky volume with constant pauses nt street corners, lest I overlook' a chef d’oeuvre bv Benvenuto Cellini that wonderful I'lorentine goldsmith, at once one of the greatest of artist- and a cheerfully self-admitted assassin or fail to identify each and everv statue in the Loggia del Lanz.i, or practise mv

highly elementary Italian upon some hall' decaved inscription ol the Medici period. Away with Baedeker, a murrain upon Mr Muirhead, into the Arno with mv frocked Joanne. Give me the by streets and the present-day Florentine. Give me “the people” every

“ONE OF THE GREATEST OF ARTISTS”

time, the multi-coloured present rather than the often drab past. Everyday Florence. . Thev tell me that the cost of living is hitting the Florentine, like all other Italians, very hard, and there is un-

questionably here a strong undercurrent o! suspicion and indeed dislike of Mussolini But Hie Florentine is, I fancy, less obstreperous than the Roman, and ‘t.’ir less inclined to discontent from which an awkward revoltltiottarv spirit uiighl too easily be evolved titan his brethren of the in tettselv mdi's'-inl Milan, where the possible Anarchist is said to develop al! too readily in the factories He may have, doubtless he has. his grievances.

but on the surface at least, so far as I can see by popular demeanour, the present is for him. if not exactly the best possible of worlds, at least a singularly agreeable and satisfying existence. ’ 1 see few dour, sulky looking folk as I saunter along the narrow streets along the Arno, away from the tourist and cosmopolitan quarters where one hears most the language of Surbiton or Hampstead Heath, the nasal “vep” and “nop” of Jonesville (Pa.) or that vowel clipping twang which is reminiscent of Sydney Your Florentine can be keen enough, they sav, at a bargain, and in the shops it is safe to begin with a “Troppo” (too much), ascend to a “Molte Troppo” (far too much), and after an affected indignation at the lowness of your offer and much gesticulation it is astonishing what reasonable descent in price mav be reached. The worthy salesmen on that most picturesque spot in Florence, the shop-bordered Ponte Vecchio, surely—save the Venetian Rialto—the quaintest of the world’s bridges, pursue the tourist out on to the roadway in order to procure a sale But even though the shrinkage in his price is both sudden and substantial not a few' of his British customers are apt to discover later on that the very same curios and trinkets can be bought for even less in Westbourne Grove or Oxford Street than the bargain-hunters pay on Arnoside. Some Matters Gustatory.

The Florentines, they tell me, have as keen a regard for economy in their household expenditure as a French bourgeoise. On dress both sexes are, 1 should imagine, not a little extravagant Tn particular the men seem to be ever as spick and span as if suddenly turned out of the proverbial bandbox. But I confess I cannot share theit enthusiasm for patent leather shoes, and there is apt to be a certain flambovance about their neckties which the more soberlv clad Briton might not approve But even the fairly w’ell to do live, I am assurred, very frugally. Spaghetti and risotto—for which latter, a sort of thick glutinous mass of rice, coloured with saffron, I cannot affect anv partiality—almost invariably figure prominently in a meal wherein meat plavs usually but a minor role. On most of the Italian menus coups and stews, which -smack unmistakably cf the chef’s ability to “use up” unfinish-

cd items of the previous day’s fare, are too largely in evidence, and polenta, a sort of boiled mash of maize flour, is used freely to carry off manv edibles not a little queer to the British taste. I can scarcely share the Italian taste in cheese, and there is a prevalent affection for garlic, which innv nt times offend the olfactory nerves of the stranger in the land But fruit and wine are cheap, and good, and if the Italian does not spend

much on his food, I fancy he “does himself none too badly.” But although the Italians, more particularly the Venetians, can offer some most succulent broths made with shellfish, thev have nothing to come “within cooee” of New .1* dand’s famous toheroa soup. Were I a young man with a substantial bank balance, 1 veritably believe I would betake me to Paris and found a new restaurant, whereat toheroa soup would be the “clou” of the menus. There must be here a possible fortune. In a Wonder City.

Yes, Venice is in truth a wonder city. Never a horse here, nary a motor-car. Here at least is something different, and the eyes which open wide in mild astonishment as one descends from a dusty train and finds oneself aboard the quaintly long and black painted gondola on the far-famed Grand Canal, are destined to gaze upon scenes which von shall find in no other European city. Up the narrower canals, round the corners of which the gondolier shouts a staccato “Stali” or "Premi,” as warning to his professional fellow coming in an opposite direction, there is apt to float across the traveller’s nostrils an odour assuredly not from Arabay the Blest, and provoke disagreeable memories of certain minor waterways in Amsterdam and Bruges But the novelty of the scene pardons much, and as, after dinner, at what was once the Bauer-Grunewald, formerly ~a hostelry specially favoured by the Teuton, but during and after the war having “Hotel d’ltalie” tacked on to its title, I sip my coffee on a "terrasse” which overlooks the Grand Canal itself, I plead guilty, for an ordinarily unsentimental mortal, to a feeling akin to positive enchantment. Almost opposite is the massive, austerely beautiful bulk of Santa Maria della Salute, and I am quietly proud to remember that one of the finest pictures ever painted of that splendid church, one by Frank Brangwyn, hangs in the permanent art collection in far-away Poneke. Across the water the dignified Dogana, or Customshouse, bears a long line of coloured electric lamps, for it is a fete day, and illuminations are everywhere, and still further across the water, on the steps of the fine Palladian pile of Sati Giorgio Maggiore, some “movie” makers are filming scenes from the amusing, but highly scandalous, memoirs of that strange figure in eighteenth century history, the famous Venetian adventurer,’ Jacques Casanova de Seingalt. The steps of the portico are thronged with gaily-attired figures, who blaze forth into multi-coloured glory as the lights are thrown on them, to relapse into mere phantomdom as the flares die out Vaporetti, the tiny steamers which are so sadly injuring the trade of the gondolieri, ply to and fro, flagbedecked and ablaze with coloured lamps. An exceptionally merry party is being given aboard a small warship moored close inshore, and on a gondola bedecked with Chinese lanterns a fine baritone is singing the hackneved, but to-night specially appropriate, “Barcarole” from “lhe Tales of Hoffmann.” It is a gay and charming scene. Outside Florian’s.

After a busy day of sightseeing, of listening to the guide’s monotonous telling ‘of his oft-told tale, of visiting a succession of decaying but still splendid palaces and churches, of bargaining for beads and knick-knacks innumerable on that Rialto so familiar, in name at least, to those who know their “Merchant of Venice,” ind painstakingly visiting some of those sights which “you certainly must not miss, mv dear,” it is good to lay back a little, to lounge outside the famous Cafe Florian on the Piazza San Marco and watch fellow tourists in their hundreds feeding the famous pigeons of St. Mark-’s from little bags of maize. The Cafe Florian is one of the world’s most famous places of refreshment. Exactly when it was opened I have forgotten, but for well over half a century its hospitable salons have never been closed, for it is the pride of Florian’s that it is always open, day and night. I know of no more picturesque place the wide world over, or at least such of it as has come 'neath mv ken. to compare with the great square which lies before what is the least European, ce.rtainly the least Italian, of Italy’s churches. Personally, I prefer the noble Duonio at Florence, with its Giotto Campanile, and although the Salute opposite my bedroom windows is. I find, belitted as “modern.” it is to me more simply and vet eloquently impressive in its austere serene beauty than the Bvzantinian Basilica with its five domes and its positively marvellous mosaic treasures. But Venice is justly proud of St. Mark’s and the winged lion, which is the symbol of the cathedral, is held in sacred respect as the typical emblem of the beautiful city on the lagoons. Many.charmed Venice.

Round from Florian’s, past St. Mark’s and its famous bronze horses, which Venice herself, then supreme in the Mediterranean, stole from Constantinople, but which the predatory Nap annexed in 1898, the French returning them after Waterloo, we saunter round to the broad I’iazzetta along which on one side runs the Doges’ Palace. Of this latter, with its countless artistic and historical treasures, of the not-far-distant Ponte del Sospiri, or Bridge of .Sighs; of a wonderful old library, the starting point of which was a collection of books given by the poet Petrarch to Venice, and which contains the perfectly unique Grimiani Breviary, which not even twenty Vanderbilts or Pierpont Morgans have dollars enough to buy; I spare you even an attempt at description. Nor dare T dwell upon the quaint Venetian shopland—at its best in the ever-crowded, sadly too narrow Merceria—upon the ethereally beautiful glass ware of Murano isle, as it lies a veritable little gem in the sunlight on the waters of the lagoon, or discourse upon the curious sights to be seen nt that home'of cosmopolitan luxury, Venice’s great bathing place, on the Lido, upon which, the day T am there, half Germany would seem to have descended. And Venetian bends and Venetian lace—and (he Venetian smells—no, all these must he left alone. T am off to Parts to-morrow, via Montreux and Geneva, nnd space, like time, is all too short.