After ascent. “THE SUN, WHEN CAESAR FELL.” Through back-to-back graffiti. “HAD SYMPATHY FOR ROME.” Through frosted fields. “SEE THAT YOUR ARABLE LAND LIES FALLOW IN DUE ROTATION.” Through endless tunnels. “AND AN EVIL AGE WAS AFRAID HIS NIGHT WOULD LAST FOR EVER.” We arrive at Chiusi. “AND LEAVE THE IDLE FIELD ALONE TO RECOUP ITS STRENGTH.” To change trains. “THOUGH AT THAT TIME THE EARTH AS WELL.” For Siena. “THE WAVES OF THE SEA.” We reach a plateau. “BY ROTATION OF CROPS YOU LIGHTEN YOUR LABOR.” Where farmland flattens into broad fields. “THEREFORE SCRUPLE NOT TO ENRICH THE DRIED-UP SOIL WITH MANURES.” Various in their textures. “MONGRELS AND BIRDS MOROSE GAVE TONGUE TO THE DOOM.” Under a mild wintry sun. “AND SCATTER FILTHY ASHES OVER EXHAUSTED FIELDS.” On the platform. “THUS PHILIPPI’S FIELD SAW ROMAN ARMIES.” We await the second train’s departure. “THE DAY HE HID HIS HEAD’S BRIGHTNESS IN A RUSTY FOG.” The second train awaiting in turn a third train’s arrival.
Waiting with us, a young woman, looking more like a prostitute than a student, spreads her university textbooks on a balustrade to review highlighted passages.
LONG ENOUGH NOW HAVE WE
PAID IN OUR BLOOD FOR THE PROMISE LAOMEDON BROKE AT TROY.
LONG NOW HAS THE COURT OF HEAVEN GRUDGED YOU TO US, CAESAR,
COMPLAINING BECAUSE YOU CARE ONLY FOR MORTAL TRIUMPHS.
Having chain-smoked two cigarettes, her preparation is complete. She checks her watch, scans the track for sign of the train to Milan. “ONCE AGAIN ENGAGED IN THE SHOCK OF CIVIL WAR.” At the midpoint of our Chiusi-Siena leg, the grade increasing markedly. “THE HIGH ONES THOUGHT IT NO SHAME.” Our little engine begins to labor. “THAT WE SHOULD TWICE ENRICH WITH OUR BLOOD.” The undulant hills rise higher. “EMATHIA.” Higher still. “AND THE BROAD PLAINS OF HAEMUS.” Requiring that we once more tunnel through them. “AS THE WICKED WAR-GOD.” We begin our final approach. “RUNS AMOK THROUGH ALL THE WORLD.” To Siena, “who for many centuries had carried on almost perpetual war with the sister-cities around her, coveting their possessions or defending her own.”
“Tasso soon became restless at Rome, and accordingly we find him on the wing to Siena, where he sought to exchange bustle for quiet. For this delightful stronghold, the second city of Tuscany, takes a peaceful tribute from the pure air of mountain and sea. Silently upon her throne she sits like some sculptured goddess. Like one of Tasso’s warrior maidens, she is close-clad in armor that only causes her dainty beauty to appear yet more fair.”
Author and companion down stair, across sloping interval, descending further steps into the Campo, which emerges into view through an archway. The Torre del Mangia – a pigeon passing – rises high above its own clock. In its belfry, behind an iron grill, may be seen human figures pacing back and forth. Having entered into the plaza we confront the Palazzo Pubblico’s crenellated structure, its upper reaches in red brick, its lower in gracefully arched marble. Near the base of the steps that we have descended stand two blond Italian women, one in dred-knots, one – perhaps the younger woman’s mother – in ankle-length navy coat. The dred-knotted girl adjusts a white scarf against the lapels of her pale blue nubby jacket; turning in profile, she offers a view of an elegant leather arm bag suspended to her waist. After an interval of flagstone the scallop-shaped Campo’s pie-like sections commence, slope quickly, then level off at a basin, where pigeons looking for scraps stroll deliberately. Mother and daughter, tourists both, set off about the semicircle, promenading past one of two medieval buildings that flank the piazza. Suddenly the pigeons lift off and swirl by, as the two blue-coated figures disappear inside a posh café, outside whose entrance stand tables covered in white cloths, their chairs in white-painted wood bent into semicircles. Nearby three Japanese girls sit on a ledge licking ice cream cones: strawberry, grape, vanilla. The shortest and liveliest of the three offers her purple cone to the tallest, who in turn offers her pink cone to the other two. “Tasso’s object in visiting Siena was to seek out Monsignore Piccolomini, the commentator on Aristotle, who pursued his peaceful studies in this most winsome of all the fair Tuscan towns.”
About a pool of water, whose origin is unclear, pigeons have gathered; behind them: a fancy restaurant, closed, at 3:00 pm. The Japanese girls, their black shoes in chic high heels, take seats outside the Costa Bar, its outdoor tables furnished with red cloths, yellow triangular-backed, red-seated, tubular chairs. Two more expensively-dressed Asian women stand leafing through the café’s menu, set upon a gold stanchion, a gold tubular lamp illuminating its pages. “Foto Cine Ottica,” reads an awning across the way. The constant coo-murmur of pigeons pervades the piazza’s shady side. Again the flock flaps off, circling as though in a race about the square. Meanwhile, teenies have congregated near the base of a fountain, nestling in amongst its graceful marble figures. Blondes, dyed-blondes, two or three brunettes, they are also licking ice cream cones. As they converse with several guys their own age, three middle-aged men sit on the stoop, looking depressed. A little girl in red parka, red stockings, red shoes, scampers away from her mommy and daddy, rushing toward the fountain, her red scarf flying, her red hat falling to the ground. The congregated teenies are tourists too, their broad Australian accents audible. Atop the Wolf of Siena’s snout a pigeon leans over to drink from a spout of water that issues from her mouth.
In his History of Literary Criticism in the Italian Renaissance Bernard Weinberg summarizes Pellegrino’s view of Tasso’s superior handling of character, thought and language:
Character. Tasso’s personages are all heroic (except when he requires “some vile or wicked one to integrate his plot”) and therefore worthy of the epic; they are all appropriate; they are all “similar” to their historical characters, “consistent” in their words and actions. Finally, all are “good” within the limits prescribed for the epic; the protagonist (unlike the tragic hero) is “supremely good,” whereas the other figures are middling or even bad, as the plot demands. Sentenza. Pellegrino includes under this heading the expression of ideas and passions and the development of argument; he thinks that Tasso is less successful here than elsewhere because of a brevity that leads to obscurity and a certain unfamiliar quality. Language. Here, in the part which constitutes “the major difficulty of the poetic art,” Tasso is supreme; for his metaphors, his way of speaking, his passion, generate wonder and delight in the mind of the reader.
We have entered the piazza’s sunny side, where a youthful Italian and his girlfriend neck before an audience of two dozen people seated on the bricks. “Even in these later unhallowed days, Euterpe and Erato still haunt the Tuscan vales.” Together the lovers arise, mutually entwining the fingers of both their hands. “Love-poetry, the improvisation of peasant lads and maidens, echoes among the hills in the spring time.” Again they kiss, “mingling with the bleating of sheep and goats”; again, again, “and the music of bright pleasant streams.” Behind them an awning reads “Souvenirs VINI DOLCI Souvenirs.” The sun has warmed things up in the square. As the lovers continue their embrace, a Japanese girl in red loden coat takes a seat on the ground behind them, her clunky black Nikes extended before her; in yellow loden coat, her sister also seats herself, cross-legged, her white Nikes reflecting the light. In the first floor of a reconstructed medieval house a restaurant has been installed, its decorous brown-on-white awning lettered “Self Service: CIAO.” Having arisen to stand side by side, the two sisters smile artificially for a portly middle-aged German, who uses their own camera to photograph them.
As we stroll down a narrow street leading out of the Campo, author pauses to enter “Agenzia Ippica,” where he studies spread-sheets of the latest races. “I Risultati,” in computer printout, have been scotch-taped beneath a blackboard that lists the horses in various runnings: at Roma, at Napoli, at Torino. In this smoky ambiance filled with loud talk men pace about anxiously. Back in the street, we take a right into the Via del Porrione and continue past several surprisingly fashionable boutiques. A half-bearded Italian youth in yellow jacket and cap smiles as author turns to examine “Hostaria Le Logge,” its window filled with huge red flowers in a green vase; two green bottles of red wine; a single empty wine glass; dried spaghetti on a white plate, a white shallow bowl atop it. As we descend into a sharply sloping vicolo, an old man in a tam arises from its sunlit depths. Midway down the declivity an arch crosses the alleyway, atop it a balcony covered with plants, at its base a white kitten lounging. We turn right again to descend further, down a staircase into a narrow way; here we turn again to gaze upward toward the Torre del Mangia, which looms against a gray sky. Across the way, filling two arches – semicircular, quadrangular – have been pasted two almost identical signs, in white on purple: “Mercato della Frutta Rubina,” they read.
As we turn left into the Via di Pescheria, a medieval-style wooden roof projects from a wall, on which colorful posters have been pasted: electric orange, electric chartreuse; in conservative black-on-white one announcing “Accademia Musicale Chigiana” performances of Haydn’s “Berenice che Fai: Cantata per Soprano e Orchestra”; of Mozart’s “Exultate, Jubilate, Mottetto.” We turn again to traverse a deserted market square. Suspended from a pair of brackets between two green-shuttered windows, a pair of maroon Levis catches the light. Beyond the town wall there opens a gorgeous landscape of garden plots; of palaces cresting a nearby hill; in the valley, an olive tree, smoke rising from behind it, drifting higher, hillward, to cover in thin vapor the apse of a church.
“In Purgatorio, as the physical and human landscapes change, the poetic register changes, too. Like earth, Purgatory is in time, it has dawns and sunsets, days and nights, visions and dreams. The penitent are not frozen in their earthly individuality; they move on together, in peace with God and with themselves, listening intently, or gazing at, or themselves voicing, examples of virtues and vices.” –Lino Pertile again. We have remounted the Via Giovanni Duprè into the Campo to enter the courtyard at the base of the Palazzo Pubblico’s spire. A man and wife in identical turquoise pants and purple parkas gaze upward from within the tower that rises above us. Across the courtyard, under its arcade, reads an advertisement for a musical comedy: “L’Uomo non è di Legno.” Pigeons strut across the open space of the inner court. We begin our climb. “What they feel with much greater intensity is their distance from God.” As we reach the midway point, author asks companion how she feels: “Hen lei,” she responds, as wearily she mounts yet more steps. Having forgotten to bring her camera, she is in a bad temper. “Like a reversed nostalgia, this sense of separation and exile characterizes their ascent, transforming it into a pilgrimage towards the heavenly home.” One floor from the top we pause to look down into the Campo’s fountain, onto its tiled rooftops. “Dante climbs the mountain with them.” Off in the distance the marble cathedral glistens. “A pilgrim among pilgrims, he understands and shares their memories of the past and their longing for the future.” Reaching the final platform we view the surround through four arches, each oriented toward one of the cardinal points. “His encounters in Purgatory often become dialogues about art and poetry.” Above us a small wooden stair rises to the belfry. “But the thought of earth with its horrors and injustices is never allowed to slip too far away.” To the East: a view of the old wall, within which a lovely cathedral; beyond, hills covered in vineyards. Qian-hui complains of dizziness. “The sound intellect must hold that after the end of this world every nature, whether corporeal or incorporeal, will seem to be only God, while preserving the integrity of its nature.” –Eriugena. To the North: the Basilica; trees beyond the central city’s perimeter, the forest shrouded in grayish mist; within it, the brightly colored apartment buildings of the city’s outskirts. “So that even God, Who in Himself is incomprehensible, is after a certain mode comprehended in the creature.” To the West: beneath a sun dimmed by cloud cover, a fairyland of ridges and vales gradually filling with fog. “While the creature itself by an ineffable miracle is changed into God.” Author steadies himself on the bell to complete his 360 degree circuit. (Periphysean, I,451B) To the South: a view best taken in silence.
We have ascended from the Campo into the Via di Città and are heading in the direction of the Duomo. As we mount the Via dei Pellegrini, it suddenly comes into view. “Ginger,” reads the name of a shop across the way, its manikins in black tops, their skirts in ginger; behind the counter, in a black top, sits a ginger-headed girl. We enter an alley and turn about to face the Duomo’s portico garlanded in rose and white-gray marble. We have entered. In the eastern transept of the Greek-cross plan, an altarpiece in gold: Christ in golden vestment, surrounded by golden medallions, one containing the Ten Commandments, another a golden book; beneath a golden halo surrounded by twelve stars His crown is also made of gold. At his side stands a shrine with a golden chalice, light rays emanating from it.
We have entered the baptistery, the six sides of its font embellished with bas reliefs in bronzo dorato: “St. John before Herod,” by Lorenzo Ghiberti; to either side, figures by Donatello: “Fede” (1427), “Speranza” (1427). At the exit, behind a computer, sits a black woman. “Buona sera,” she says, respectfully.
Back in the Via dei Pellegrini, we turn to review the steps that have taken us up to the baptistery’s entrance and returned us to the sloping plaza. They now lead the eye to a shop on the ground floor of a medieval building, through whose window a yellow-clad manikin stares out ghostlike. “Saldi,” reads a sign in orange on black. As we continue through winding ways, we pass at a distance the Basilica. In the vicolo opposite, a blue-and-gold sign on chartreuse ground reads “Il Pellicano: Laboratorio Ceramiche Artistiche”; next door stands Porcella Blanca, its vitrine crowded with elegant items, on its ocher stucco front a black graffito of the hammer and sickle. From the citadel of her second-story balcony, in sweater and cap, an Albergo’s 60-year-old proprietor looks down disdainfully at author and companion.
“As a relative of the poet, Orazio was undoubtedly motivated to defend the Furioso against Pellegrino’s charges.” –David Javitch. “OFTEN AGAIN IT PROFITS TO BURN THE BARREN FIELDS, / FIRING THEIR LIGHT STUBBLE WITH CRACKLING FLAME.” “Nonetheless, one feels that it was less the call to justify his granduncle’s practice.” “UNCERTAIN / IT IS WHETHER THE EARTH CONCEIVES A MYSTERIOUS STRENGTH / AND SUSTENANCE THEREBY.” “Than the opportunity to present his reconstitution of Aristotle’s generic system that spurred him to write his Difese.” “OR WHETHER THE FIRE BURNS OUT / HER BAD HUMORS AND SWEATS AWAY THE UNWANTED MOISTURE.” “Torquato Tasso’s eventual response to Orazio’s Difese confirms that the status of the Furioso was not the main issue in question.” “UNLESS YOU MAKE WAR ON THE WEEDS RELENTLESSLY WITH YOUR MATTOCK / AND SCARE THE BIRDS AWAY.” “For in his reply Tasso was not concerned with Orazio’s defense of the poem against Pellegrino’s specific objections.” “OR RATHER HARDENS AND BINDS HER GAPING VEINS AGAINST / FINE RAIN AND THE CONSUMING SUN’S FIERCE POTENCY.” “But staunchly rejected the validation of generic mixing.” “AND THE PIERCING COLD OF THE NORTH WIND.” “That he correctly perceived to be the treatise’s primary agenda.”
As we head home, we pass the inner-lit white letters of a candy shop reading “Nannini.” “OR WHETHER THAT HEAT OPENS MORE OF THE DUCTS AND HIDDEN / PORES BY WHICH HER JUICES ARE CONVEYED TO THE FRESH VEGETATION.” In its window, seated on a red flowery heart marked “F. Valentino.” “AND PARE WITH A BILL-HOOK THE DARKENING / OVERGROWTH OF THE COUNTRY.” Five Italian cupids draw their bows to shoot little white darts. “AND THE RAIN HAS COME TO YOUR CALL.” Beneath them are displayed other specialties of Siena: a large torta iced with the face of a clown, surrounded by lozenges in lavender, green and pink. “VAINLY ALAS YOU WILL EYE ANOTHER MAN’S HEAPED-UP HARVEST.” A graded selection of panforte. “AND RELIEVE YOUR OWN HUNGER.” Each piece has been iced with an animated illustration of medieval Siena, including a portrait of Gabriel, a long trumpet held to his lips. “BY SHAKING AN OAK IN THE WOODS.” We pass the green-lettered Banca dell’Etruria and return to the Albergo Cannon d’Oro.
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ABOVE ALL, WORSHIP THE GODS, PAYING YOUR YEARLY TRIBUTE
TO THE CORN-GODDESS – A SACRIFICE ON THE CHEERFUL GRASS
JUST AT THE CLOSE OF WINTER, WHEN SPRING HAS CLEARED THE SKY.
OH THEN THE LAMBS ARE FAT, THEN ARE WINES MOST MELLOW,
SWEET THEN IS SLEEP, AND RICH ON MOUNTAINS LIE THE SHADOWS.
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