Lonsdale Ragg

Li ruscelletti che de’ verdi colli

Del Casentin discendon giuso in Arno.

—Inf. xxx. 64 sq.

The “Apostle of Freedom” must needs be a patriot among his own people; and patriotism involves readiness to fight for the community. Dante’s temperament—like that of scores of our young poets and artists who have fought and fallen in the Great War—was not naturally at home in the practice of arms. Yet he took his place and “did his bit” as a valiant Guelf of Florence in the battle of Campaldino; and so the Casentino valley still speaks to us to-day of a thirteenth century “Student in Arms.” It speaks to us, again, of an exiled patriot, who went, “seeking freedom,” “through well-nigh all the regions in which” the Italian “tongue was spoken,”[337] and in the early days of his lifelong banishment found shelter from his foes with the hospitable Conti Guidi, and a comforting atmosphere of appreciation and respect as antidote to the piaga della fortuna and the dolorosa povertÀ of an outcast.

The Valley has also for us, as it had already for Dante, hallowed associations redolent of that “freedom of spirit” which comes to a simple and austere life lived for highest ideals. St. Francis, whose name still lingers in the Casentino, was, in a true sense, an “Apostle of Freedom” too. So perhaps no apology is needed for associating with the other essays in this volume a narrative of a visit paid to the scenes so familiar both to St. Francis and to Dante. Since the words above were written, Italy has herself officially set her seal upon the thought contained in them.

“This could be no ordinary centenary,” writes Lina Waterfield (of the Sexcentenary celebrations of Sept., 1921). “Italy had won the boundaries Dante desired her to possess, and in honouring him she celebrated her victory of complete liberation. The official visits ... to the castles of the Casentino ... and to the battlefield of Campaldino, where he fought for ‘Libertas’ in 1289, were all undertaken in the spirit of exalted patriotism. Sometimes the poet was forgotten, or rather merged in the spirit of ‘ItalianitÀ,’ when the rafters of the mediaeval banqueting hall of Poppi rang to the cries of ‘Viva Fiume’! September 16th was spent in the Casentino. Next day all Florence turned out to see the pageant of victorious Florentines returning from Campaldino, perhaps the most decisive battle ever fought in Tuscany, for it broke the power of the Ghibelline nobles. ‘Evviva la LibertÀ!’”

Meanwhile, at Ravenna, a great band of Franciscan Tertiaries had paid their homage at the Poet’s tomb.

And now for the record of a pre-war pilgrimage to the Casentino.

From Pontassieve, the third station on the railway line between Florence and Arezzo, a drive of some four hours will take you into the heart of the Casentino; into a country well worth a visit for its own wild and delicate beauty, but rendered immeasurably more interesting by its thronging memories of Dante.

The Casentino is the valley of the Upper Arno, whose course from its source on Monte Falterona is sketched by the poet in those strangely bitter lines put into the mouth of Rinier da Calboli in Purgatory,[338] while its trickling tributary streams, bathing the verdant slopes, are vividly described in a single terzina by poor parched Adamo in Hell—

We are in the country of the famous Conti Guidi, that stalwart family who so successfully maintained their feudal sway amid an environment of burgher republicanism; the clan of strong men who, for more than four centuries at least, were masters of this fertile district which stretches from the slopes of Falterona southward to the walls of Arezzo—that city of “curs” from which Arno “turns aside its nose in scorn.”[340]

The offspring of the romance[341] of Guido Vecchio and “la buona Gualdrada,”[342] this grim four-branched family—the Guidi of Porciano, of Romena, of Battifolle and of Dovandola—they have left their lasting mark upon the country. Three of their castles remain, castles in which Dante was harboured in the earlier years of his exile. Porciano—playfully referred to, surely, in the “brutti porci” of Riniero?[343]—and Romena both in picturesque ruin; Poppi (Arnolfo’s first draft, as it is said, for the similar Palazzo Vecchio at Florence) repaired throughout the centuries, since Count Francesco handed it over in 1440 to Neri Capponi, representative of the Florentine Republic.

We are in the country of Campaldino, the battle where Dante fought, and Corso Donati and Vieri de’ Cerchi, soon to be leaders of opposing factions in their native town, performed prodigies of valour side by side: the battle where on St. Barnabas’ Day in 1289 the Guelf party decisively reversed the humiliation of twenty-nine years before, and that under the very walls of the Convent of Certomondo, founded by the Guidi two years after Montaperti, in thanksgiving for that bloody victory—

We are in the country of St. Francis of Assisi, Dante’s great religious ideal; for a morning’s drive or walk up the steep road from Bibbiena brings us right up to the foot of the “Rude crag betwixt Tiber and Arno”[345] which all Christendom reveres.

In taking the old road over the Consuma Pass from Pontassieve, we are following in the tracks of the Florentine host as it marched forth in June, 1289. After much discussion as to the best route, as Villani and Dino Campagni tell us,[346] they wisely decided to take this steeper and more perilous but shorter path. A short way beyond Pontassieve they would have left the Val d’ Arno, to strike the river again but a few miles from its source. They left it flowing north towards Florence; they would find it again running southwards in the direction of Arezzo.

As Dante rode up from the valley with his comrades, his eyes so quick to detect the characteristic features and moods of Nature would note the growing severity of the landscape—in his day perhaps less marked than now, when feckless generations of short-sighted inhabitants have denuded the hills of their timber. As the road wound up the steep he would glance now north, now south, and perhaps occasionally back to the west. Northwards he would see towering up the mass of Monte Morello, the bare heap of a mountain that rises above his native city. Besides it his eye would light upon the small but conspicuous wooded hill of Monte Senario, on which, nearly sixty years before, the sainted founders of the Servite Order had established themselves: Florentines all of good family, and one a scion of that famous house of the Amidei whose quarrel with the Buondelmonti in 1215 had already begun to bear fruit of internal discord in the city—the first drops of the storm that was to sweep poor Dante into exile. Westward, beyond the Arno, the hill of the “Incontro” would catch his eye, the traditional site of the meeting between Saint Francis and Saint Dominic which has provided an inspiring theme for so many artists; while on the south his view would be bounded by the thickly wooded ridge of Vallombrosa, where San Giovanni Gualberto had gathered more than two centuries before (in 1015) a band of followers for whom the discipline of San Miniato had grown too lax. Almost at the watershed of the Consuma range, he would observe the track upon the right—only a few years ago (1905) converted into a strada carrozzabile—by which one might pass on horseback or on foot from Vallombrosa to Consuma, and so into the Casentino. Halting, perhaps, for a few moments in the village of Consuma—probably not very different then from what it is to-day, a collection of charcoal-burners’ dwellings—then trotting down the other side, past the hamlet of Ponticelli, swerving to the right over the shoulder of a ridge, they passed the ancient little hostelry of Casaccia, and stopped, so tradition asserts, for rest and refreshment in the bleakly situated Badiola, which crouches in the midst of a windswept group of unhappy trees, on an outlying hillock to the left of the road, looking down on the Casentino itself.

Resuming their downward journey with lighter hearts, yet some of them no doubt a little fluttered already by the anticipation of an encounter (as Dante confesses to have been on the morning of the battle),[347] they would ride past the ill-omened mound which still gives to a neighbouring hamlet, the grim name of Ommorto or Omo Morto, the spot where Adamo of Brescia[348] was burned alive (as some think only a year before—1288) for counterfeiting the coinage of Florence at the instigation of the Conti Guidi of Romena. And but a little way further on that same Castle of Romena would burst upon their view—the fortress with the seven-fold circle of defensive walls which were to suggest to the poet, in his sojourn of some fourteen years later, the nobile castello[349] of Limbo, wherein the spirits of the just and illustrious pagans lived their dignified life—senza martiri,[350] but also senza speme.[351]

The ruins that can be visited to-day shew but the vague outlines of its former grandeur; yet one may see the green-carpeted cortile where the great spirits walked to and fro sopra il verde smalto,[352] and fragments at least of the very walls within whose shelter the poet probably elaborated this and much else of the Inferno: and within the outer circle of defences, the famous Fonte Branda[353] whose cool waters were recalled to mind by poor Adamo in his torment—waters sipped to-day by the devout Dantist pilgrim almost as though it were indeed a holy well.[354]

We hear of no assault made upon the Castle in passing. Probably the place was too strong and the work before the Guelf Army needed haste. On the other hand the force within, thinned to strengthen the Ghibelline host below, was no doubt too weak to attempt an effective onslaught upon the cavalcade; though, as Dino implies, the Florentines were passing through awkward country, wherein “if they had been found of the foe, they had received no small damage.”[355]

The armies faced one another in the valley’s bottom, on that level stretch of alluvial land which lies to the north of the rock on which stands the Castle and the town of Poppi. North and south the field was commanded by a Guidi fortress; it stretched like a vast “lizza” or tilting-ground between Poppi and Romena.

The corn would be well advanced on that eleventh of June: not so rich a promise, perhaps as that on which the daughter of Ugolino della Gherardesca afterwards commented so bitingly to the daughter of Buonconte, when the ground had been fertilised with torrents of Ghibelline blood.[356] Perchance the approaching harvest may have been already ruined by the devastating march of the Aretines. But the general features of the country would have lost none of their charm. The graceful, whispering poplars and willows surely then as now lined Arno’s banks, recalling to some of the elder warriors the poplars of Montaperti, fringing the Biena, Malena and Arbia—the tall trees that still whisper shudderingly of the day when their three streams ran red.

The vine-festoons—if then as now, and as in the Medicean days, the valley was garlanded with vineyards—would still be in fresh verdure, and would form an effective setting for the gay colours of a mediaeval armament. Dante and his companions would indeed have as fair a scene to fight in as poet or artist turned soldier could wish; albeit the day was cloudy, presaging a night of storm.[357] Immediately behind the gaily decked arena stood the bold grey mass of Poppi, and beyond this again the more distant background of hills, flanked on the left by La Verna with its hallowed and inspiring memories.

And what a glorious prospect of the whole field of battle had the ladies of the Guidi household from the casements of that castle whose walls are still adorned with fragments of affreschi, which Dante’s eyes must have seen! All the pomp and pageantry of the war visible from a place of security, a veritable eagle’s nest. And beyond the battle a clear view across to Romena, Falterona and the sources of Arno; with a peep, perhaps, of the castle of Porciano—the northernmost stronghold of the clan since the practical demolition, after Montaperti, of the neighbouring Castel Castagnajo.

Here in their own country they would have every confidence of success. They would rejoice in the brave show of chivalry, the gorgeous armour caparisons and banners—a spectacle of the meeting of the two best-appointed hosts that the countryside had ever witnessed.[358] They would watch with triumph the first irresistible charge of the Aretine cavalry, which drove Dante and his fellows back in confusion upon their infantry, and they would feel the victory already won.

They would mark with wonder and horror the unaccountable retreat of Count Guido Novello, who was to have delivered a flank attack with his hundred and fifty horse, remembering perchance with scorn that it was his untimely flight which, twenty-three years before, had brought to a premature end the Ghibelline domination in Florence.[359]

They would note the sudden move of Corso Donati and his Pistojesi, whose charge upon the Aretine flank was the beginning of the end. Then came the wholesale slaughter and pursuit, wherein unnerved warriors, forgetful of everything but the fear of death, streamed in flight past Poppi and down the valley towards Bibbiena. One of these hunted knights they may have observed in the earlier stages of his flight; for the name and figure of Buonconte di Montefeltro[360] would be well known to them. But if their eyes were sharp and keen enough to catch a glimpse of him as he passed, it was but a glimpse. His end none saw or knew till Dante met the dead count’s spirit in Purgatory; though the scene of it, as there described, may well be the faithful reminiscence of the Poet’s own impression as he galloped with the pursuers towards Bibbiena.

The spot where Arno and Archiano meet is dear to every student of Dante, though comparatively few are privileged to see it with their eyes. And when you see it, it is just a confluence of two mountain-streams, flanked by heaps of grey water-worn stones, and fringed by tall poplars and brushwood—this in the flat bottom of a fertile and well cultivated valley. But the rushing water has a voice unlike the sound of ordinary streams: the grey piles of pebbles and boulders, the tall whispering poplars and the bushes at their feet casting a dark line of shade along the river’s brim—these have something pathetic, tragic, funereal in their aspect.

One seems to see Buonconte[361] staggering to the brink, bursting his way blindly through the hedge of trees and bushes, while his life-blood ebbs out from the wounded throat, and leaves a crimson track upon the plain—see him fall senseless, with just an instinctive crossing of the arms and an inaudible invocation of the name of Mary, that was to baulk the fiend of his prey. Then night falls, and the mountain tops “from Pratomagno to the main ridge” of Apennine, and all the valley between, are swathed in storm-clouds, and the fossati are filled with drenching rain. The Archiano dashes down its steep course from “above the hermitage” of Camaldoli (whose founder, St. Romoald, has his place with St. Benedict in Paradise),[362] a roaring, foaming torrent, and swirls the corpse down the stream of Arno, unlocking the arms by force from that cross upon the breast which had served the soul so well—

and engulfs the body, soon to be covered with spoils of the river-bed.

It is but a short walk down the steep lane from Bibbiena and through the meadows to the imboccatura, and the inhabitants of the hill-town may well have witnessed from their walls many a like tragedy on that day, as breathless Ghibellines at their last gasp found themselves caught in the trap—pulled up suddenly by Arno or Archiano, and overtaken ere their bewildered brains could decide what course to follow.

Far different memories from those of the northward plain cling to that bold wooded peak which rises on the east of Bibbiena. The pilgrimage to La Verna from that town is one of the most delightful that can be imagined. After the first steep descent—for Bibbiena stands on the top of a hill almost precipitous on every side—one mounts again, passing through groves of tender spring green, the beautiful green of young oaks, with rich, yellow-red soil as a foil to it; and then down a second time past Campi into the fair valley of the Corsalone, with its long rows of poplars like these of Campaldino and Montaperti. After that it is all one long ascent, and for the most part a steep one. The lane winds up through sparse woods again, mainly of small oaks, and is bordered, in spring, by garlands of primroses and violets. For a time one loses sight of the goal (which had been visible from Bibbiena, and again from above Campi), though the view opens out wonderfully upon the left, up the Arno valley past Poppi to Falterona. Then at last, after an hour or so of steady climbing, the bold wooded cliff heaves in sight again, and one distinguishes the buildings of the monastery perched high up on the edge of a vast precipice. Another hour will bring us to its foot. As he toils up to this sanctuary even the most devoted Dantist cannot but have in mind, besides the eleventh Canto of Paradiso, certain passages also of the Fioretti.

Every holy spot, almost, is marked by a chapel, wherein man’s handiwork obscures—and dare we say mars?—while it exalts, the memories of the past. It is all so unlike what Saint Francis saw when he rode up on his donkey from the other side to take possession of Orlando’s gift of the ‘divoto monte.’ Yet one cannot stand without emotion before the commonplace chapel that marks the spot where the little birds came to welcome him: “con cantare e con battere l’ ali,” making “grandissima festa e allegrezza,” settling on his head and shoulders and arms and in his bosom.[364] And when one has entered the portal, one is fain to see not only the Chapel of the Stigmata, with the very spot marked out for honour where in 1221 the Saint—

and the “sasso spicco”—that weird rent in the rocks concerning which Saint Francis believed himself to have divine revelation, that it was the result of the earthquake at the crucifixion: “quando, secondo che dice il Vangelista, le pietre si spezzarono.”[366] This, too, is an inevitable object of the Dantist’s pilgrimage, for he regards it as extremely probable that the idea of the cloven rocks in the twelfth of Inferno[367] came to Dante from La Verna and Franciscan lore. But there are other spots untouched by Dante, yet hallowed by memories of the “poverello di Cristo.” Such is the hollow grembo in the cliff-side where the rock received the Saint into her maternal bosom, yielding “like molten wax” to the impress of his form,[368] when the fiend would have hurled him down the precipice. Such, again, is the grotto where his hermit-bed is shewn,[369] wherein he passed the first Lent of his sojourn at La Verna; and such, too, is the stone, self-consecrate, and so used without further benediction as an altar top, whereon, so legend says, the Redeemer often-times stood and conversed familiarly with his poor servant “face to face as a man speaketh unto his friend.”[370]

Dante rests under the shadow of Saint Francis—not at La Verna, indeed, but at Ravenna. The Campanile of the Franciscan church stands sentry over his tomb. It is known that he was buried in the Franciscan habit: and it has been justly conjectured that his association with the Order was no mere thing of sentiment. One of the earliest commentators on the Divina Commedia[371] asserts that for a time he actually joined the Order, to whose girdle of cord he seems to refer,[372] as worn formerly by him as a safeguard against youthful lusts—

And a living Dantist has recently put forth the suggestion that this connection with the Franciscans began with his boyish studies. Between his ninth and his eighteenth year, when, according to the Vita Nuova, a something unnamed kept him apart from the lady of his heart, he was, so it is thought, living under strict rule, studying as a pupil under the good friars of Santa Croce,[373] and laying the foundations at once of that theological lore which amazes us to-day, and of that lofty ideal of virtue of which he sings—

But apart from all conjecture, ancient or modern, the Poet’s admiration of Saint Francis is so obvious and his appreciation of him so just and true, that none can read the eleventh canto of Paradiso without feeling that a Dantist’s pilgrimage to the Casentino culminates not in the memories of Campaldino or of the meeting of the waters; not even in the personal reminiscences of the Poet’s exile suggested by the modern tablet on the ruined walls of Romena, but rather at La Verna—

where the re-discoverer of Christ for the Middle Ages—

Valour, and sincerity, and simplicity. The Casentino of Dante and St. Francis recalls to us the golden principles which alone make life worth living now. Patriotism, keen and fervid as that whose echoes rang just now thro’ the ancient hall at Poppi: but “Patriotism is not enough.”

Readiness to lay down one’s life for a Cause: that is the temper which has saved civilisation from utter shipwreck: but is it securely saved?

Purity of purpose, sincerity in speech and conduct—sancta simplicitas—ready to cast away earthly privilege, to face joyfully the call to “low living and high thinking,” and to find freedom in fewness of material possessions and richness of moral and spiritual endowment—that is the temper eagerly embraced by Francis and his followers, loyally accepted by Dante, exile and pilgrim; and it is the only temper which can adapt itself to live happily in a denuded world: the temper which, when saturated with the passion of loving service as was that of “Christ’s Poor Man” may hope, Franciscan-wise, to heal the world’s wounds, to assuage its quarrels, and to build up better and more strongly that which has been broken down.

BEATI MITES; QUONIAM IPSI POSSIDEBUNT TERRAM.

BEATI PACIFICI: QUONIAM FILII DEI VOCABUNTUR.