P U B L I C A T I O N S > F
R A N C E S S T I L L M A N ' S E
U R O P E D I A R Y
CHAPTER
I..........Going from Here to There
CHAPTER
II..........Mishap
in Milan
CHAPTER
III..........Venice
CHAPTER
IV..........Florence
CHAPTER
V..........Siena
CHAPTER
VI..........Rome
CHAPTER
VII..........Assisi
CHAPTER
VIII..........Nice
CHAPTER
IX..........Barcelona
CHAPTER
X..........Solsona
CHAPTER
XI..........Gerona
CHAPTER
XII..........Paris in the Fall
Saturday July 12th
“Ary is engrossed in contemplation
of the square in front of us. Even more than most squares it
has an air of unreality; it could be a stage setting for a play.”
It is late afternoon of our third day in Assisi,
and Ary and I are sitting at an outdoor cafe in the center of
the town. Ary is engrossed in contemplation of the square in front
of us. Even more than most squares it has an air of unreality;
it could be a stage setting for a play. Long and narrow, and lined
on either side with pale-colored early Renaissance buildings which
have flower-filled balconies. In the midst of these early Italian
buildings the facade of an ancient Roman Temple, with a tall tower
by its side. Hemmed in though it is, it holds its place and gives
an air of dignity to the entire surroundings. A graceful fountain
in the middle of the square, and at one end a musical comedy-ish
cafe and restaurant, with a partial view of a sharply sloping
street in the background. The sloping street is lined with buildings
and now and then people emerge from the buildings and walk down
toward us, or disappear up the hill, as if they are coming on
stage or going off into the wings.
This sense of unreality has prevailed ever since we left Rome.
First the ride through the Italian hills with walled towns high
on the mountains — pale houses and churches and towers of
sand-colored stone, remotely romantic and mysterious, like cities
in a fairy tale or a mediaeval legend. It was raining and the
black clouds added a dramatic note to the scene — deep streaks
of black; heavy dark masses; and now aid then the clouds and mountains
merging into an impenetrable black wall.
Even the porter who met us inside the arched portico at the edge
of the town seemed like someone out of a story-book. He was a
strange little fellow with a face and figure like Charlie Chaplin
and the same sad look in his eyes. And the proprietress of the
pension — how handsome and regal looking, with an enigmatic
expression worthy of Mona Lisa herself.
The room she showed us was large but very sparsely furnished,
really quite austere. Wide windows with the entire stretch of
the valley opening out in front of us; cypress trees and vineyards
and back of them checker-board patches of gold and green fields,
becoming tinier and tinier as the view receded to tile rolling
mountains in the far distance. And such a vast expanse of heaven.
Ary says he longs to have wings to soar about in the immense sky!
“Last night Ary got up
shortly after midnight and sat there spell-bound until the first
pink of the sunrise appeared. He told me this morning that he
felt as if he had been watching the angels hovering over the
city, and had seen them collecting all the stars in a basket
and putting them away in a safe place before the sun could come
out to frighten them.”
Ary spends hours in front of the windows. Last night
he got up shortly after midnight and sat there spell-bound until
the first pink of the sunrise appeared. He told me this morning
that he felt as if he had been watching the angels hovering over
the city, and had seen them collecting all the stars in a basket
and putting them away in a safe place before the sun could come
out to frighten them. It is just such fantasies that one weaves
in this strange city. There is an air of timelessness; it could
be the twelfth century or the fifteenth or the eighteenth —
except for the sound of the radio now and then or the little motorcycles
which occasionally whizz by on the streets, sputtering noisily.
The shoemaker to whom I took my shoes for repair yesterday could
be living in the time of St. Francis himself. His shop was just
a little hole in the wall; he himself was thin and his clothes
were worn and his tools were of the most primitive sort. And he
was too timid to make a price for his work — "Pay whatever
you like" he said, and such a look of wonderment came over
his face when Ary gave him a handful of lire. And yet they say
that the town is quite radical politically...
We haven't seen many visitors in the city. Every day buses filled
with tourists drive up to the Cathedral of St. Francis, but that
is at the very edge of the town, at the bottom of the hill, and
the buses seldom enter the city itself. They stop at the famous
Cathedral, and the guide leads the people inside and shows them
the frescoes by Giotto and Simone Martini and other artists, and
the crypt where St. Francis is buried, with its flowers and white
candles, and then they come out and there are some beggars to
whom they give a few coins and then the buses are waiting to carry
them away.
These tourists who remain over-night or for a few days usually
stay at the very modern Hotel which is at the bottom of tile hill
near the Cathedral. Those few who want to inhale tile air of the
mystic town itself find that they must pay dearly in the way of
physical exertion, for the climb up the hill from the Cathedral
is back-breaking and to explore tile city calls for sturdy legs.
Because of the inaccessibility of the Cathedral we have limited
ourselves to one visit a day. But what wonderful hours we have
spent there! My first impression was a confused one, both because
of the wealth of magnificent masterpieces and because of the dim
lighting. There are two churches, one built on top of the other,
and tile lower one is like a crypt, long and narrow and so deep
in gloom that one's eyes find it difficult to become adjusted
to the inky black. Occasionally, when groups of visitors come
in, one section or another of tile Cathedral is lighted, and then
it is a breath-taking experience to see in full light the richness
of the painted walls. Here the masters of the Sienese and Florentine
schools poured out their creative genius in praise of the gentle
Saint in whose memory the Cathedral was erected. The upper church
is devoted chiefly to Giotto's famous frescoes of the life of
St. Francis — twenty-eight in all, extremely beautiful in
color and composition. In the lower church there are powerful
Cimabue frescoes, so strongly Byzantine in flavor, delicate and
fragile groups of saintly figures by Lorenzetti, and exquisite
Simone Martini compositions, deeply spiritual in conception. Ary
says that Giotto tells a story; he unfolds a drama, even though
he does it simply and with great beauty of design. To me, Simone
Martini sings a song, and such a pure and lovely one........
Sunday evening, July 13th
This morning we attended a high mass at the Cathedral of St. Francis.
It was held in the upper church. The service was elaborate, with
Georgian chants by an unseen choir, and the priests and their
attendants dressed in richly embroidered robes. And all the while
we could look at the Giotto frescoes on the walls, especially
the wonderful tapestry-like scene of St. Francis Feeding the Birds,
with its gray blue sky and deep grayish trees.
Later we walked to the Santa Chara Church at the other end of
the town. It has a very fine Romanesque facade, decorated with
charming and amusing little grotesque figures. Across the entire
facade, toward the top, runs a row of fascinating mask-like heads,
and further down, little angels and combinations of human figures
and animals. On the ground, on either side of the door, are larger
animals, which look like lions, one just in the process of devouring
a man — he has the man's head inside his mouth; the other
creature wearing a most disconsolate and discouraged expression,
as though the victim had proved indigestible.
All these things are so fascinating to me, and still I feel that
Assisi has cast a strange spell on me, and I find myself becoming
very melancholy. I didn't realize how much the place has affected
me until this afternoon. Ary and I were sitting in the square,
watching the townspeople in their Sunday attire, with here and
there a priest in his black frock or a brown-robed monk, as they
strolled past us and disappeared up the theatrical looking street
back of the restaurant. I was talking about the lovely young nun
with the rapt expression whom we had noticed at the morning service,
and Ary, mistaking my interest for enthusiasm, suggested that
we stay here another week. I looked at him for a moment, and then
to my own surprise, I burst into tears, and begged him to take
me away from here.
I don't know why I am so sad, I told him. Perhaps it is that the
legend of St. Francis is so strong — every stone in the
street seems saturated with his presence. Perhaps it is the feeling
that time is standing still here; or perhaps it is that the vista
from our pension window gives a sensation of limitless space too
vast for my comprehension. During the day the sky is so mysteriously
calm and the atmosphere is so limpid and at night there is an
overpowering sense of loneliness in such a vast stretch with no
sign of life, not even a light twinkling in the distance. I have
no wings to soar; I am very much of the earth, and there is something
oppressive to me in this timelessness and spacelessness. It is
as if I am facing eternity.
All this I poured out in an outburst which astounded both Ary
and myself. I felt sorry afterwards, and a bit sheepish, but Ary
insists that we have had enough of Assisi, and that it is time
for us to go on to a brighter and gayer atmosphere. So tonight
we packed our bags, and tomorrow we will be on the way to the
Riviera.