they saw the town in zones of varying distinctness: the lower part and the plain beyond were a lake of mist with buildings and trees and the lines of streets half glimpsed and half surmised below the surface as if below clouded water; then a muffled borderland of pale roofs and dark pinnacles of cypress trees; then, immediately above this, clear sunshine, bell towers and bay trees and the blaze of winter jasmine, the cathedral with its leaded dome and Gothic tympanum, the great Basilica di San Francesco lying on its spur of rock, lapped by the mist, freighted with its tomb of the saint. To the east rose the sheer slopes of Mount Subasio thrusting up into sunlight from the obliterated valley below. There was a slight grainingof mist still, even so high as this, and the cool scent of the night’s distillations still lingered in the air.
That was an experience in the nature of things impossible to repeat. Today they went directly to the Basilica di San Francesco, to the lower church, built as a crypt to house the mortal remains of the saint. By another of those gently conspiratorial pacts which were so much a feature of their life together, they did not enter through the splendid Gothic doorway on the west side but went round to the smaller entrance adjoining the cloister. This way, passing from daylight to the devotional gloom of the interior, one was abruptly, dazingly presented, at eye level and very close, with the Giotto
Crucifixion
and the Cimabue
Madonna Enthroned
side by side on the wall of the facing transept.
There was a special place where they were accustomed to sit and they made for it now—habits like this were established easily between them, and kept to with a sort of devotion, a repeated affirmation of the fact of sharing. It was almost directly below the cross vault of the transept, slightly south of the apse. It was a marvelous point of vantage because from there you could look upward at the celebrated allegorical paintings in the broad webs of the vaulting; or straight before you at the Giotto frescoes running along the wall—great dramatic images of persecution:
The Flight into Egypt, The Massacre of the Innocents;
or—easily seen by turning the head—the Lorenzetti
Crucifixion
with its cloudburst of weeping angels. Masterpiece on masterpiece, Sienese and Florentine in unique competition, arguably the greatest concentration of genius under one roof anywhere to be found. Sistine Chapel notwithstanding, as Mr. Green was fond of saying.
As people do under the assault of beauty, after a while he generalized his feelings, became aware of the minglings of light, shaft of white daylight from the narrow entrance, filterings of ruby and blue from the stained-glass windows, pallid electric light from bulbs slung high above. From somewhere along the nave, out of sight, a guide was speaking in steady monologue, but he could not distinguish the language. Everywhere one looked this extraordinary proliferation of images, ceiling and walls covered with them, haloed saints, cloaked mortals, white angels with rose-tinted wings, meekly inclined heads of martyrs and mourners.
From time to time his attention sharpened, he saw in clear focus the dune-like landscape of
The Flight into Egypt
, blue-robed Mary on the ass, a palm tree bending in worship at her passing, the Gothic sprawl of the bled Christ in the Lorenzetti
Deposition
, St. Francis holding up his hands to be pierced with the stigmata. Nothing in the homely piety of his upbringing had prepared him for the awe he experienced in places like this. He felt the mortal struggle that underlay all this devotion. Fear was just below the surface. Something more than fear …
“The dread of faith,” he murmured to his wife. “Look at those faces, those long brows and narrow eyes swept back toward the temples. You wonder whether they are looking at heaven or hell.”
“Why, Sammy,” she said, “you know as well as I do that the faces are stylized; there was a
That was an experience in the nature of things impossible to repeat. Today they went directly to the Basilica di San Francesco, to the lower church, built as a crypt to house the mortal remains of the saint. By another of those gently conspiratorial pacts which were so much a feature of their life together, they did not enter through the splendid Gothic doorway on the west side but went round to the smaller entrance adjoining the cloister. This way, passing from daylight to the devotional gloom of the interior, one was abruptly, dazingly presented, at eye level and very close, with the Giotto
Crucifixion
and the Cimabue
Madonna Enthroned
side by side on the wall of the facing transept.
There was a special place where they were accustomed to sit and they made for it now—habits like this were established easily between them, and kept to with a sort of devotion, a repeated affirmation of the fact of sharing. It was almost directly below the cross vault of the transept, slightly south of the apse. It was a marvelous point of vantage because from there you could look upward at the celebrated allegorical paintings in the broad webs of the vaulting; or straight before you at the Giotto frescoes running along the wall—great dramatic images of persecution:
The Flight into Egypt, The Massacre of the Innocents;
or—easily seen by turning the head—the Lorenzetti
Crucifixion
with its cloudburst of weeping angels. Masterpiece on masterpiece, Sienese and Florentine in unique competition, arguably the greatest concentration of genius under one roof anywhere to be found. Sistine Chapel notwithstanding, as Mr. Green was fond of saying.
As people do under the assault of beauty, after a while he generalized his feelings, became aware of the minglings of light, shaft of white daylight from the narrow entrance, filterings of ruby and blue from the stained-glass windows, pallid electric light from bulbs slung high above. From somewhere along the nave, out of sight, a guide was speaking in steady monologue, but he could not distinguish the language. Everywhere one looked this extraordinary proliferation of images, ceiling and walls covered with them, haloed saints, cloaked mortals, white angels with rose-tinted wings, meekly inclined heads of martyrs and mourners.
From time to time his attention sharpened, he saw in clear focus the dune-like landscape of
The Flight into Egypt
, blue-robed Mary on the ass, a palm tree bending in worship at her passing, the Gothic sprawl of the bled Christ in the Lorenzetti
Deposition
, St. Francis holding up his hands to be pierced with the stigmata. Nothing in the homely piety of his upbringing had prepared him for the awe he experienced in places like this. He felt the mortal struggle that underlay all this devotion. Fear was just below the surface. Something more than fear …
“The dread of faith,” he murmured to his wife. “Look at those faces, those long brows and narrow eyes swept back toward the temples. You wonder whether they are looking at heaven or hell.”
“Why, Sammy,” she said, “you know as well as I do that the faces are stylized; there was a
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