Pictures in Umbria (Illustrated)
It has been said that the face which exercises most permanent charm is the face whose attractions defy analysis; one in which beauty is subtle, compounded of many and varied qualities, so that, gazing at the harmonious whole, it is impossible to specialise its fascination.
Such a face will not, at first, reveal its charm, for much of this does not lie only in regularity of feature, or in beauty of colouring, nor even in the trick of a smile; the spell is so potent, that when one at last tries to find out its secret, the mind refuses to dispel the sweet illusion by any such work-a-day process, and agrees with the hasheesh smoker, "to enjoy the sweet dream while it lasts."
Places, as well as faces, exert this undefined attraction, but in the former, association often intrudes itself, a conscious ingredient in the witchery they possess for us.
I am just now thinking of a city where much of the historic association is repulsive, even horrible; looking at the old grey walls of Perugia, the mind strays backward, to times when these ancient palaces with barred lower windows were gloomy fortresses, in which ghastly tragedies were acted over and over again.
In some of the old houses dissolute sons plotted how to murder their fathers and brothers, how to commit every sort of crime; blood has run like water in the grass-grown streets and piazzas,—and not only with the blood of an Oddi, shed by a fierce Baglione, the two leading families always fighting for power in their city: the one party being Guelph, and the other Ghibelline.
There was even worse strife than this: at times near and dear kinsmen fought hand to hand in the constant brawls of Perugia; murder was done in the churches, even before the high altar of the cathedral.
Softer, quainter memories, however, linger in this hill-throned and hill-girdled city, and permeate the atmosphere, in spite of the "reek of blood" which, a poet once told me, "taints Perugia."
Up the brick-stepped way, beneath a tall dark arch, came, even in those years of rapine and murder, the grave Urbino painter, Giovanni Sanzio, with his fair-haired son, Raffaelle. Giovanni came to Perugia to place the lad with the illiterate genius of Città del Pieve, Pietro Vannucci, whose praise was in every one's mouth, and who had already set up a school and was ranked a great painter. The Perugians still fondly call him "il nostro Perugino." It is said that Pietro was born in the ancient hill-city.
One feels sure that Raffaelle must have been petted and tenderly loved. The father and son made a striking picture as they came from the dark archway into the sunlight,—Raffaelle mounted on his mule, his dainty locks falling over his shoulders in glossy waves of brightness.
Years before he came, the sun saw a very different picture, when poor, roughly clad, coarse-featured Cristoforo Vannucci came trudging along on foot from Città del Pieve, holding the red fist of his little son, Pietro. The square-faced, square-headed boy was only eleven years old, yet his father already firmly believed in his genius, and had brought him all the way from Città del Pieve to present him to the great Umbrian master, Benedetto Bonfigli, who was then at work on the famous frescoes still to be seen in the Palazzo Pubblico of Perugia. There are, both in the Sala del Cambio and elsewhere in the city, proofs that Raffaelle actually worked here, and that he studied under Perugino with Pinturicchio, Lo Spagna, Eusebio di San Giorgio, and the great master's other pupils.
One learns in Perugia how the student from Città del Pieve raised the tone and widened the scope of the existing Umbrian school, and gave to it a grace and ease, to say nothing of higher qualities, which have rarely been excelled. Yet, except in the frescoes of the beautiful Sala del Cambio, much of Perugino's best work is to be found elsewhere, rather than in the town wherein he established his academy, and from which he took his name as a painter.
The southern side of the city holds a still more absorbing association in the gate near the old church and convent of San Pietro de Casinensi; for by this gate is the way to Assisi, and it has often been trodden by Francesco Bernardone and his disciples.
But I am straying from my text: the mysterious fascination which the grey old city on the hill has for those who linger in it.
I have been told that some travellers "do" Perugia in six hours, or between trains; I have heard the Via Appia compared with the Holborn Viaduct; but these travellers do not come under the spell of the place; they see only an old city, part Etruscan, part Roman, chiefly mediæval, perched on top of a hill, girt with massive walls which look down thirteen hundred feet and more, to the fertile valley of the Tiber.
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Such a face will not, at first, reveal its charm, for much of this does not lie only in regularity of feature, or in beauty of colouring, nor even in the trick of a smile; the spell is so potent, that when one at last tries to find out its secret, the mind refuses to dispel the sweet illusion by any such work-a-day process, and agrees with the hasheesh smoker, "to enjoy the sweet dream while it lasts."
Places, as well as faces, exert this undefined attraction, but in the former, association often intrudes itself, a conscious ingredient in the witchery they possess for us.
I am just now thinking of a city where much of the historic association is repulsive, even horrible; looking at the old grey walls of Perugia, the mind strays backward, to times when these ancient palaces with barred lower windows were gloomy fortresses, in which ghastly tragedies were acted over and over again.
In some of the old houses dissolute sons plotted how to murder their fathers and brothers, how to commit every sort of crime; blood has run like water in the grass-grown streets and piazzas,—and not only with the blood of an Oddi, shed by a fierce Baglione, the two leading families always fighting for power in their city: the one party being Guelph, and the other Ghibelline.
There was even worse strife than this: at times near and dear kinsmen fought hand to hand in the constant brawls of Perugia; murder was done in the churches, even before the high altar of the cathedral.
Softer, quainter memories, however, linger in this hill-throned and hill-girdled city, and permeate the atmosphere, in spite of the "reek of blood" which, a poet once told me, "taints Perugia."
Up the brick-stepped way, beneath a tall dark arch, came, even in those years of rapine and murder, the grave Urbino painter, Giovanni Sanzio, with his fair-haired son, Raffaelle. Giovanni came to Perugia to place the lad with the illiterate genius of Città del Pieve, Pietro Vannucci, whose praise was in every one's mouth, and who had already set up a school and was ranked a great painter. The Perugians still fondly call him "il nostro Perugino." It is said that Pietro was born in the ancient hill-city.
One feels sure that Raffaelle must have been petted and tenderly loved. The father and son made a striking picture as they came from the dark archway into the sunlight,—Raffaelle mounted on his mule, his dainty locks falling over his shoulders in glossy waves of brightness.
Years before he came, the sun saw a very different picture, when poor, roughly clad, coarse-featured Cristoforo Vannucci came trudging along on foot from Città del Pieve, holding the red fist of his little son, Pietro. The square-faced, square-headed boy was only eleven years old, yet his father already firmly believed in his genius, and had brought him all the way from Città del Pieve to present him to the great Umbrian master, Benedetto Bonfigli, who was then at work on the famous frescoes still to be seen in the Palazzo Pubblico of Perugia. There are, both in the Sala del Cambio and elsewhere in the city, proofs that Raffaelle actually worked here, and that he studied under Perugino with Pinturicchio, Lo Spagna, Eusebio di San Giorgio, and the great master's other pupils.
One learns in Perugia how the student from Città del Pieve raised the tone and widened the scope of the existing Umbrian school, and gave to it a grace and ease, to say nothing of higher qualities, which have rarely been excelled. Yet, except in the frescoes of the beautiful Sala del Cambio, much of Perugino's best work is to be found elsewhere, rather than in the town wherein he established his academy, and from which he took his name as a painter.
The southern side of the city holds a still more absorbing association in the gate near the old church and convent of San Pietro de Casinensi; for by this gate is the way to Assisi, and it has often been trodden by Francesco Bernardone and his disciples.
But I am straying from my text: the mysterious fascination which the grey old city on the hill has for those who linger in it.
I have been told that some travellers "do" Perugia in six hours, or between trains; I have heard the Via Appia compared with the Holborn Viaduct; but these travellers do not come under the spell of the place; they see only an old city, part Etruscan, part Roman, chiefly mediæval, perched on top of a hill, girt with massive walls which look down thirteen hundred feet and more, to the fertile valley of the Tiber.
Pictures in Umbria (Illustrated)
It has been said that the face which exercises most permanent charm is the face whose attractions defy analysis; one in which beauty is subtle, compounded of many and varied qualities, so that, gazing at the harmonious whole, it is impossible to specialise its fascination.
Such a face will not, at first, reveal its charm, for much of this does not lie only in regularity of feature, or in beauty of colouring, nor even in the trick of a smile; the spell is so potent, that when one at last tries to find out its secret, the mind refuses to dispel the sweet illusion by any such work-a-day process, and agrees with the hasheesh smoker, "to enjoy the sweet dream while it lasts."
Places, as well as faces, exert this undefined attraction, but in the former, association often intrudes itself, a conscious ingredient in the witchery they possess for us.
I am just now thinking of a city where much of the historic association is repulsive, even horrible; looking at the old grey walls of Perugia, the mind strays backward, to times when these ancient palaces with barred lower windows were gloomy fortresses, in which ghastly tragedies were acted over and over again.
In some of the old houses dissolute sons plotted how to murder their fathers and brothers, how to commit every sort of crime; blood has run like water in the grass-grown streets and piazzas,—and not only with the blood of an Oddi, shed by a fierce Baglione, the two leading families always fighting for power in their city: the one party being Guelph, and the other Ghibelline.
There was even worse strife than this: at times near and dear kinsmen fought hand to hand in the constant brawls of Perugia; murder was done in the churches, even before the high altar of the cathedral.
Softer, quainter memories, however, linger in this hill-throned and hill-girdled city, and permeate the atmosphere, in spite of the "reek of blood" which, a poet once told me, "taints Perugia."
Up the brick-stepped way, beneath a tall dark arch, came, even in those years of rapine and murder, the grave Urbino painter, Giovanni Sanzio, with his fair-haired son, Raffaelle. Giovanni came to Perugia to place the lad with the illiterate genius of Città del Pieve, Pietro Vannucci, whose praise was in every one's mouth, and who had already set up a school and was ranked a great painter. The Perugians still fondly call him "il nostro Perugino." It is said that Pietro was born in the ancient hill-city.
One feels sure that Raffaelle must have been petted and tenderly loved. The father and son made a striking picture as they came from the dark archway into the sunlight,—Raffaelle mounted on his mule, his dainty locks falling over his shoulders in glossy waves of brightness.
Years before he came, the sun saw a very different picture, when poor, roughly clad, coarse-featured Cristoforo Vannucci came trudging along on foot from Città del Pieve, holding the red fist of his little son, Pietro. The square-faced, square-headed boy was only eleven years old, yet his father already firmly believed in his genius, and had brought him all the way from Città del Pieve to present him to the great Umbrian master, Benedetto Bonfigli, who was then at work on the famous frescoes still to be seen in the Palazzo Pubblico of Perugia. There are, both in the Sala del Cambio and elsewhere in the city, proofs that Raffaelle actually worked here, and that he studied under Perugino with Pinturicchio, Lo Spagna, Eusebio di San Giorgio, and the great master's other pupils.
One learns in Perugia how the student from Città del Pieve raised the tone and widened the scope of the existing Umbrian school, and gave to it a grace and ease, to say nothing of higher qualities, which have rarely been excelled. Yet, except in the frescoes of the beautiful Sala del Cambio, much of Perugino's best work is to be found elsewhere, rather than in the town wherein he established his academy, and from which he took his name as a painter.
The southern side of the city holds a still more absorbing association in the gate near the old church and convent of San Pietro de Casinensi; for by this gate is the way to Assisi, and it has often been trodden by Francesco Bernardone and his disciples.
But I am straying from my text: the mysterious fascination which the grey old city on the hill has for those who linger in it.
I have been told that some travellers "do" Perugia in six hours, or between trains; I have heard the Via Appia compared with the Holborn Viaduct; but these travellers do not come under the spell of the place; they see only an old city, part Etruscan, part Roman, chiefly mediæval, perched on top of a hill, girt with massive walls which look down thirteen hundred feet and more, to the fertile valley of the Tiber.
Such a face will not, at first, reveal its charm, for much of this does not lie only in regularity of feature, or in beauty of colouring, nor even in the trick of a smile; the spell is so potent, that when one at last tries to find out its secret, the mind refuses to dispel the sweet illusion by any such work-a-day process, and agrees with the hasheesh smoker, "to enjoy the sweet dream while it lasts."
Places, as well as faces, exert this undefined attraction, but in the former, association often intrudes itself, a conscious ingredient in the witchery they possess for us.
I am just now thinking of a city where much of the historic association is repulsive, even horrible; looking at the old grey walls of Perugia, the mind strays backward, to times when these ancient palaces with barred lower windows were gloomy fortresses, in which ghastly tragedies were acted over and over again.
In some of the old houses dissolute sons plotted how to murder their fathers and brothers, how to commit every sort of crime; blood has run like water in the grass-grown streets and piazzas,—and not only with the blood of an Oddi, shed by a fierce Baglione, the two leading families always fighting for power in their city: the one party being Guelph, and the other Ghibelline.
There was even worse strife than this: at times near and dear kinsmen fought hand to hand in the constant brawls of Perugia; murder was done in the churches, even before the high altar of the cathedral.
Softer, quainter memories, however, linger in this hill-throned and hill-girdled city, and permeate the atmosphere, in spite of the "reek of blood" which, a poet once told me, "taints Perugia."
Up the brick-stepped way, beneath a tall dark arch, came, even in those years of rapine and murder, the grave Urbino painter, Giovanni Sanzio, with his fair-haired son, Raffaelle. Giovanni came to Perugia to place the lad with the illiterate genius of Città del Pieve, Pietro Vannucci, whose praise was in every one's mouth, and who had already set up a school and was ranked a great painter. The Perugians still fondly call him "il nostro Perugino." It is said that Pietro was born in the ancient hill-city.
One feels sure that Raffaelle must have been petted and tenderly loved. The father and son made a striking picture as they came from the dark archway into the sunlight,—Raffaelle mounted on his mule, his dainty locks falling over his shoulders in glossy waves of brightness.
Years before he came, the sun saw a very different picture, when poor, roughly clad, coarse-featured Cristoforo Vannucci came trudging along on foot from Città del Pieve, holding the red fist of his little son, Pietro. The square-faced, square-headed boy was only eleven years old, yet his father already firmly believed in his genius, and had brought him all the way from Città del Pieve to present him to the great Umbrian master, Benedetto Bonfigli, who was then at work on the famous frescoes still to be seen in the Palazzo Pubblico of Perugia. There are, both in the Sala del Cambio and elsewhere in the city, proofs that Raffaelle actually worked here, and that he studied under Perugino with Pinturicchio, Lo Spagna, Eusebio di San Giorgio, and the great master's other pupils.
One learns in Perugia how the student from Città del Pieve raised the tone and widened the scope of the existing Umbrian school, and gave to it a grace and ease, to say nothing of higher qualities, which have rarely been excelled. Yet, except in the frescoes of the beautiful Sala del Cambio, much of Perugino's best work is to be found elsewhere, rather than in the town wherein he established his academy, and from which he took his name as a painter.
The southern side of the city holds a still more absorbing association in the gate near the old church and convent of San Pietro de Casinensi; for by this gate is the way to Assisi, and it has often been trodden by Francesco Bernardone and his disciples.
But I am straying from my text: the mysterious fascination which the grey old city on the hill has for those who linger in it.
I have been told that some travellers "do" Perugia in six hours, or between trains; I have heard the Via Appia compared with the Holborn Viaduct; but these travellers do not come under the spell of the place; they see only an old city, part Etruscan, part Roman, chiefly mediæval, perched on top of a hill, girt with massive walls which look down thirteen hundred feet and more, to the fertile valley of the Tiber.
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Pictures in Umbria (Illustrated)
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940148884200 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Lost Leaf Publications |
| Publication date: | 09/25/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 4 MB |
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