It is not possible to mention here all the pictures of Foligno. There
are two fine Alunnos in S. Niccolò; and a rather surprising Mantegna
with the colour of brown wine--colour of passion and pain, which clashes
with the Perugino just beside it--on the chapel of the Nunziatella. The
Palazzo Communale is covered with the work of Nelli, but one feels that
the painter who so loved what was gay and rich and beautiful (see his
picture at Gubbio) wanted a lot more gold and ultramarine than his
patron allowed him when painting the ceiling of this chapel.
Before leaving Foligno we went into the church of S. Maria infra Portas.
It is so old, this little low basilica, that it has sunk quite deep into
the soil around it. Inside are many faded frescoes, brown and gold, and
full of almost painful early sentiment. As we stood among them in the
dusk, a blackbird poured a flood of freshest song in through the door
from the light of the courtyard. "How your bird sings!" we said to the
custode. "Yes," said the man; "he sings all day; but whether for love or
rage I cannot tell." ... And it struck us that no Umbrian of a hill
town, or no Perugian anyway, would have made this profoundly melancholy
statement about a tame bird's song.
MONTEFALCO
The road from Foligno to Montefalco leads all along the flat at first,
through the peaceful vale of the Clitumnus. Sometimes we crossed the
water and saw the reeds and rushes growing, and felt the cool fresh
breath of the enchanted stream. Then passing under a mediæval
watch-tower we left the flat land and began the steep ascent to
Montefalco.
The town stands on a hill in the very heart of Umbria, and hence it is
called by the people the _ringhiera d'Umbria_. We saw it "on a day of
many days," and it struck us that this was the site of the city of our
dreams--the best, the fairest we had ever met in travel. The sun was low
as we drove through the gates. Far below us and around us stretched the
Umbrian landscape, the bed of the old Umbrian lake: long green waves of
blue and green, seething in the heated air of the May afternoon.[117]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account