Letters from Italy/Chapter 19

If for every church into which I have crept I could obtain ever so small an indulgence, I could go on sinning as before to the end of my days and still reach Paradise. And among them were enormous churches, as large as a railway station, general post office, and town hall in one, let us say St. Peter’s, where one is overwhelmed by space, or Milan Cathedral, or Florence Cathedral, into which I crawled even at night; it reeked of incense, and only a few candles flickered in the extensive gloom; but still more wonderful was it at night at Padua, in that great brick church, where I was surprised by metaphysical anxiety and the sacristan; at Arezzo they actually locked me up in a church terribly high and dark, until an angel in the shape of a mason conducted me forth all the same I saw some lovely reliefs there, but I do not know whose and the angel did not know, but they are of the transition between Gothic and early Renaissance. (I was also locked in the catacombs of Sant’ Agnese, but since I was by chance in the company of the Papal Nuncio the lock opened as by a miracle and all went well.) Then grand and beautiful churches, as at Pisa, Monreale, and Rimini; many good ​and holy churches, some bald and elevated like midnight over a snowclad landscape; and many Baroque, full of pomp, brocade, and marble, so that one derives a dreary impression, as in the Jesuit churches at Venice and Naples; then little, smaller, and smallest of all churches, glorious chapels, like the golden Capella Palatina at Palermo, and the Medici chapel at Florence, where are those heathen, superhuman tombs by Michael Angelo, and Giotto’s blessed chapel at Padua, the Sixtine chapel where Michael Angelo painted the creation of the world; but this vehement and tragic spirit could not depict how God rested the seventh day. Wonderful little chapels, like the Christian mosque Martorana at Palermo, San Stefano Rotondo at Rome, and the Orthodox chapel at Ravenna, and then altogether ordinary rented houses of God, white and cool like clean linen; but you will never be at ease there, unbeliever!

As to the human aspect of churches, that is another chapter. I listened to many sermons without understanding a single word; it was the bearded Capuchin at Florence who pleased me most, with an utterance like cracking a whip; as far as I was aware he fiercely attacked opponents of the Church. And people make confessions until nightfall, and sometimes canons assemble, sit in the choir, and yell out responses as rapidly and passionately as dervishes, or as if they were having a frightful quarrel together. To many ​pilgrims the Church appears medieval, but it struck me as rather Mussulman. So many different orders and gowns are there, that even Alfred Fuchs could not distinguish them. The most handsome are the bearded brothers who run about in boots, but I do not know how much they wear beneath their gowns.

But the true proprietor of the church is the custodian or sacristan. If there are good pictures in the church he covers them with linen; if there are frescoes at least he covers windows, so that if you absolutely must see them he can pull a string and reach out his hand. Some accompany it with elaborate explanations, which do not disturb too much if you do not understand Italian. Others again have their particular opinions as to the interesting features of their church, e.g., at Pisa you go and look in the baptistery at the pulpit by Niccolo, and the custodian behind begins to howl in a very singular way and emit fanfares from his mouth, so that you may enjoy the echo; or at Naples at St. Martin’s, where you go to see Ribera, the sacristan creeps to a column and strikes the bronze voluti with a key, in order to show you that each is tuned to a different sound. There are also cathedral cats, larger and more unapproachable than any others: I did not succeed in stroking a single one.

On the whole, the early Christian and Romanesque style is the brightest; Gothic in ​Italy is too much surrounded by broad and light spaces, which makes it appear too restrained and unsatisfactory; then they try to mask it with a decorated front, and the head is in a whirl. Early Renaissance introduced purity, severity, and wise restriction; and when I once extolled Alberti, I must remark that at Mantua I set by itself the modest, sublime church. Likewise Bramante was a severe and honourable man.

All the rest, however, are Baroque.