Pictures in Umbria :: CHAPTER V SPELLO

CHAPTER V SPELLO

The pleasantest and shortest road to the railway is by Porta Eburnea. I started one day from this gate with a friend, by a steep path which leaves the road just outside the Porta, and curves along the side of the hill below the old wall. The bank, this fine morning, was gay with butterflies and wild flowers, and wreathed with a luxuriant growth of wild gourd, full of pale blossoms and small furry fruit; all was so wild, it seemed impossible we had only just left a busy city behind us.

THE WAY TO THE
STATION, PERUGIA.

At the turn of the path we came into a delightful lane, between bramble-covered banks; on one side was the dry bed of a little rill, and overhead branches of quaint trees met each other. From the Italian custom of constantly stripping the leaves to provide fodder, the foliage was scanty, yet we went down the steep path in cool and checkered shadow; lizards, darting across the way before us, gleamed as they passed in and out of the light.

This practice of stripping leaves from the trees for fodder, gives a quaint appearance to many of them; in this lane the gnarled and twisted branches looked grotesque. A man high up in one of the trees sang as gaily as a bird, while he filled with leaves a sack fastened to one of the branches.

Now and again the rich transparent purple of the shadows was traversed by a bar of golden light; this sometimes came in irregular flecks from spaces between the twisted trunks and crossing branches.

A woman coming up from the station, with a heavy basket on her head, said, "Buon Giorno," and smiled pleasantly as she passed; then a countryman, a fine, handsome fellow with glowing black eyes, wished us a good journey. He was going at such a pace that he must have been bound for the station; usually the easy, leisureful movements of its people seem to me one of the charms of Italy, so entirely in harmony with the burning, palpitating blue of its skies and the careless luxuriance of its vegetation.

Near the end of the descent is a washing place, and here a woman on her knees was hard at work, scrubbing and soaping linen. Looking back up the lane we saw the grey town peeping at us through the trees,—the tower of a house on the Piazza a prominent feature in the view.

FONTANA BORGHESE
outside PERUGIA

At the foot of the lane we crossed the dusty highroad, and again followed the short way, here very steep and rugged. At the end we came out at a cross-road where the Fontana Borghese, at one angle, made a striking feature; partly shadowed by tall cypresses, it glowed red in the sunshine. The date is 1615; its basin is green with age, and from the constant drip, drip of the water. To-day the fountain was surrounded with wine carts, each drawn by a pair of huge white oxen. It is fortunate these beautiful creatures are so gentle, for their wide-spreading, sharply pointed horns make them formidable; indeed, when the wine season began, during our stay in Perugia, we had sometimes to take refuge in a shop while they passed, for the horns of a pair of these splendid beasts stretched from one side of a narrow street to the other. Inside a little wine-shop opposite the Fontana Borghese we heard shouts of "Dieci," "otto," "sette," etc., from the players at morra.

One of the charms of Perugia is the genial courtesy of the people. My companion on this excursion had stayed several times in the town, and to-day when she appeared at the station all the officials were at her service, full of little friendly attentions, especially one giant-like porter called "Lungo."

The railway takes its course to Foligno through the valley of the Tiber, with mountain views on each side. Perugia stands grandly on the top of her hills, while on one side rises like an advanced guard the spire of San Pietro, and on a spur to the west Santa Giuliana; but the city is not so picturesque from this point, because one sees the modern buildings on the great Piazza Vittor Emanuele. On the left we saw the outside of the famous Etruscan tomb of the Volumnii, and soon after passed the pretty village of Ponte San Giovanni, getting a glimpse of the Tiber.

From the railway one has a good view of Assisi, clinging to the side of Monte Subasio, and the station is close to the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli; but we were bound for Foligno, and did not stop here to-day. As the railway circles round it we noted the splendid mass made by Subasio in this chain of mountains.

We passed by Spello, perched on a spur of the great hill, but it was disappointing to find that, after this, the valley broadened out into a plain, so that Foligno stands tamely on level ground. It does not seem to be much visited, though it is a quaint little town, and has, we heard, a tolerable inn.

On our arrival we were attacked by vociferous drivers and guides, so we took one of the dirty little carriages and drove up an avenue past the huge statue of Niccolo Alunno, a native of Foligno, to the Piazza. We were hardly out of our vehicle when up rushed a wretched-looking man, his bare chest showing red and hairy through the opening of his dirty shirt, while a huge piece of green oilskin covered his shoulders. "Ecco, Ecco, it is not possible the Signorine can find their way," he shouted. "I only can show them Foligno."

As he continued to persecute us, and our time was short, we submitted, and followed his guidance.

The outside of the cathedral fronting the Piazza is curious. Two monsters, lions in red granite, guard the portal; one of these creatures has an eagle in its mouth. Above the doorway is a curious sort of arcade; the door-heading itself has been recently restored with the emblems of the evangelists. There is nothing to see inside this church. Opposite it is a quaint old building, and on the right is the Tribunale del Commune.

We had to wait some time here while the keys were fetched; we then followed the custode up an old stone staircase to an ante-chapel to see the frescoes of Ottaviano Nelli. We went on into the little chapel; here the frescoes have been restored. They represent the life of the Blessed Virgin, from her birth to her Assumption, and are full of interest.

Coming out, we followed our ragged, repulsive-looking guide down a street close by, and saw the Palazzo Deli, a handsome building, designed, it is said, by Baccio d'Agnolo. There are three other churches; in one of them, San Niccolo, is a Nativity by Alunno; the figure of San Joseph is very fine. One of the statues in front of the choir, a female saint, has her feet bound with brass; the sacristan told us that this had been done to preserve them from the devotion of worshippers who had already kissed away the ends of the saint's toes. The frescoes in Santa Maria infra Portas, a very old church, are mostly ancient, but completely faded. Raphael's beautiful Madonna di Foligno, now in the Vatican, was once in the church of Santa Anna in this town.

We greatly regretted that we could not drive on to Montefalco, a picturesquely placed little town, with many good pictures by Umbrian painters; there are several also said to be by Benozzo Gozzoli.

We took another little carriage, standing in a side street, and had a very pleasant drive back to Spello, between vineyards and olive groves, eating our luncheon on the way. Spello looked very attractive as we approached it, its white houses gleaming in the sunlight against the green hill on the side of which it stands.

We entered the town under a quaint and ancient gateway, the Porta Veneris of Hispellum, for Spello is an old Roman town, and the ancient walls and some of the gates have been preserved. This gate has three figures outside it, a picturesque fountain stands near, and to-day beside it sat a group of handsome peasants, eating and drinking in the sunshine.

PORTA VENERIS, SPELLO.

We thought the steep old street was full of pictures for a sketcher as we drove up to the Piazza, on which is the Cathedral Santa Maria Maggiore. Entering, we were at once struck with the remarkable early fifteenth-century canopy, the work of an Umbrian sculptor, Rocca di Vicenza; it is made of the stone of the country called Cacciolfo, and has a polished surface. The four pillars are in pairs; in front of two of them the artist has introduced portraits of himself and his wife; beyond, right and left, are Madonnas by Perugino. The sacristan told us that there is a still finer specimen of the sculptor Rocca di Vicenza's work at Trevi. On the opposite side of the church is the Capella del Sacramento, the work of Pinturicchio; three of the walls and the ceiling here are covered with beautiful frescoes in delightful harmony of colour. On one side is the Annunciation, with the name and portrait of the painter, on the other walls are the Adoration and the Disputa; this last is a very interesting picture, and is also signed. On the ceiling are painted the sibyls, and the spaces between are filled with rich, harmonious colour.

PINTURICCHIO, SPELLO.

We could gladly have stayed much longer in this chapel, for the frescoes seemed to us finer specimens of Pinturicchio's work than anything we had seen at Perugia. In the sacristy is a beautiful Madonna by this painter. The mortuary chapel has a quaint pair of doors in perforated wood-work; near the west door we saw a curious square bas-relief of ancient work, on two sides of it is carved an olive-tree, and on another side a man on horseback. It looked like an old burial urn.

The way was so steep for driving, that from the cathedral we walked on in search of the woman who had the keys of the church of San Andrea. She, however, being busy, handed us over to a young fellow with a face as lovely as Raffaelle's, and with those wonderful blue eyes, which have in them the glow of an Italian sky, not to be seen in more northern regions.

But at San Andrea, while we were looking at the Pinturicchio behind the high altar, a very courteous and intelligent priest came into the church. Seeing us, he kindly removed the cross which obstructed our view of the best part of the altar picture, the child San John the Baptist, who sits writing on his scroll at the feet of the Blessed Virgin. This figure is supposed to be Raffaelle's work. St. Francis and St. Lawrence are on one side, St. Andrew and St. Gregory on the other; the embroidery on St. Lawrence's vestments is wonderfully painted, but as a whole this picture is not nearly so good as the frescoes by the same master in the cathedral.

The priest pointed out to us a graceful arcade surrounding the front and ends of an altar. This was discovered some years ago, concealed beneath a much larger altar which had been placed above the chest containing the bones of San Andrea; he told as that when the bones were sought for, in order to remove them, the arcade was brought to light. The priest also showed us a fresco on the wall of the nave, and graphically related how he himself, only a few months before, had discovered it under the whitewash when the church was being cleaned for a festa. Who knows how many treasures still lie concealed on the church walls of these out-of-the-way towns; it must be owned, however, that the newly found fresco at Spello is not artistically a treasure, nor nearly as interesting as was the story of its discovery owing to its graphic telling.

From San Andrea our blue-eyed, gentle-spoken young guide led us to the top of the town, crowned by the deserted Capuchin convent. "They have sent all the brothers away," he said sadly; "there is but one left, and he may not live in the convent, he may only come up in the afternoon, and see the schoolboys play in the garden." There is a pathetic look about the deserted, peaceful old place. From the platform in front of it we enjoyed a splendid view; before us on one side was the ever-present Subasio, towering over all, and on the top of the hill behind stood Perugia, looking at this distance like some giant castle.

At our feet in the green valley was the amphitheatre of Spello; not so perfect as that at Fiesole, but with clearly defined tiers of grassed seats rising one above another.

Porta Augusta is another interesting gateway. We came slowly down the steep street, getting constant peeps, between tall, grey houses, of the blue mountains around us. At one of these breaks in the wall a group of peasants sat, some spinning, some idling, beneath a vine that stretched on a trellis from house to house, the light filtering through the leaves became a golden green before it fell on the merry souls in the by-street below. The men of Spello look fine, robust fellows, and the women are very tall and erect.

One handsome grey-haired dame met us as we came down the ladder-like street; she was spinning from a distaff in her hand. "Dio," she held it out to my companion, "che brutta lavoro!"

"Would that I could do it," was the prompt answer, and the old dame went off chuckling with delight.

PORTA AUGUSTA, SPELLO.

The little town is like an eyrie high up in the air, the houses nestling here and there for shelter behind the grey walls.

We saw so many bits by the way in Spello, that it seemed as if one might spend some pleasant days in such an exquisitely placed spot; but we could not spy out any possible lodging; and, after all, it is an easy distance by rail or carriage from Assisi or Foligno.

Coming home by train to Perugia, we travelled with a pleasant-looking Italian lady and her sad-faced husband. She also seemed sad, and constantly put her handkerchief to her eyes; we fancied she was affected by some deep sorrow, and felt sympathy for her. The train presently stopped at a station; her distress increased, she clasped her hands, and entreated her husband to get out of the carriage and see after the poor little "angiolo."

He gently refused, and at this she sobbed, and almost howled with anguish; then, burying her face in her handkerchief, she leaned back and refused to be comforted.

At the next station we heard the sharp yelping of a little dog, and then she cried out so loudly for the "povera bestia" that we began to understand. Seeing we were interested, she sat up, pocketed her handkerchief, and explained. "The officials have taken my dog from me, and have shut it up. Dio! the sweet angel would not hurt a soul," she said, with a fresh flow of tears; "its cries break my heart. It is a cruelty beyond belief."

At this her husband left the carriage, looking much ashamed of himself. When he came back he tried to pacify his still weeping wife.

"The dog is all right, cara mia," he said.

"Cara mia," however, would not listen, and she actually sobbed and cried all the way to Perugia, where we left her on the platform with her pocket-handkerchief rolled into a ball, and pressed close to her eyes.

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