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H. B. Cotterill
Medieval Italy

CHAPTER III
ART c. 1200 to c. 1320

It has been impossible in this volume to treat the subject of art fully or continuously, and now, although we have arrived at a period during which most important and interesting developments originated, I shall have to select a few facts that seem best to illustrate these new tendencies; and I shall simply state my impressions and conclusions for what they are worth, instead of wearying the reader with theories and criticism and with the multitudinous names of artists and their works, many of which may for him perhaps awaken no memories of what is great and beautiful

(1) Mosaics. On this subject it will be well to recapitulate a few facts. In a former chapter we traced the development of Christian mosaics and noted the differences between the nobler Roman style and the more gorgeous and decorative but less artistic and less dignified style of the Byzantine school. These differences are well illustrated by the splendid Roman and Byzantine mosaics at Ravenna, while at Rome itself we find a wonderful series of works illustrative of the Roman style.

The earliest extant specimen of Christian Roman glass-mosaics (c. 320) is that which adorns the tomb of the daughter of Constantine the Great, now the church of S. Costanza fuori le mura. It might perhaps be more rightly called a specimen of transition from ancient to Christian art, for the older portions are purely pagan in subject and treatment (genii, vines, etc.), and the Christian subjects are treated in the ancient decorative fashion.1

Of early Roman mosaics that are purely Christian the finest (c. 350) is that in the tribune of S. Pudenziana (Fig. 24). Another very grand and beautiful work somewhat later in date (c. 530) is to be seen in the church of SS. Cosma and Damiano — once an ancient temple overlooking the Forum. A later example again (c. 825) is the fine mosaic in S. Prassede (Fig. 24) — which, however, in its inartistic figures and over-decorated apparel show a tendency towards 'Byzantine deformity.' However a glance at photographs of these five works of early Italian (Roman) artists will show that the art of mosaic decoration at Rome kept at nearly the same level for some five hundred years, and was generally characterized by a dignity of style which at times rose to sublimity.

Then — about the year 900 — this Roman Christian art seems to have died down to the root. For about two centuries (900‑1100) there is almost a total blank, during which we discover only rude attempts in a style evidently due to degenerate Byzantine influences. Towards the end of the twelfth century — about the time of Innocent III — Byzantine influences having become extinct, a new growth, so to speak, began to shoot upwards from the old root. In Rome we find examples of what we may regard as old Roman mosaic conceived in a new spirit. One of the earliest and finest specimens of this new style — which we may perhaps call 'Romanesque' — is the grand mosaic (of about 1180) in the church of S. Maria in Trastevere (Fig. 57, 1). Further examples of this revived art are to be found in S. Clemente (twelfth century) and S. Paolo fuori, a portion of whose vast apse-mosaics, dating from about 1220, escaped the conflagration of 1823. Then about the end of the thirteenth century we have the admirable lower portion of the great apsidal mosaic of S. Maria in Trastevere, perhaps the work of Cavallini (about whom more later), and, lastly, the famous Navicella (Fig. 57, 2), probably by Giotto, who was in Rome about 1298‑1300.

Thus we are able to trace in Rome with continuity the rise and disappearance and revival of the Roman Christian art of mosaic down to the days of Giotto.

The revival of painting about 1300 exercised an influence on the art of mosaic which was not entirely to its advantage.2 Much as one must admire Giotto's Navicella, it is apparent that here we have lost nearly all trace of that grand repose which often lends the older Roman work such impressive dignity. Doubtless we have received in exchange something very admirable; but the exchange is not quite satisfactory.3 Painting was beginning to assert its rights and to ignore those of the older art of mosaic.

In connexion with Roman art of the thirteenth century (whose fair promise to take the lead in the revival of art was, be it noted, nipped in the bud by the transference of the Papal Seat to Avignon) a few words must here be said on the interesting but rather obscure subject of the Cosmati. To Vasari, the sixteenth-century biographer of Italian artists, these Cosmati seem to have been unknown, but their names have been discovered on numerous monuments of a very original and beautiful character, and it appears that several artists (viz.  Lorenzo, Luca, Jacopo, and Giovanni) belonging to three generations of the family of Cosmati were distinguished as architects, mosaicists, and sculptors.

A speciality of so‑called Roman Cosmati work (though found also in Sicily and elsewhere) is a handsome, decorative inlay made of small sawn slabs and dies4 of coloured stone — porphyry, verde antico, pavonazzetto, and other precious marbles, found in abundance among the ruins of ancient Rome — and illuminated with pieces of gilded and brightly coloured glass-compost. This inlaid work they used for the decoration of altars, baldachini, pulpits, and columns, especially the spiral columns that were used as stands for the great Easter candles (See Fig. 58) But of all so‑called Cosmati works the most striking and important are numerous monuments by the younger Cosmati in which this decoration is used in combination with what was apparently otherwise almost unknown then in Rome, namely, Gothic architecture. The superstructures of these tombs are so purely Gothic in style that some writers have even suggested that the younger Cosmati may have visited France or England and have copied Gothic monuments there and have combined the architectural framework with Roman mosaic and the characteristic inlay-work. This combination is eminently successful. There is in Rome nothing more beautiful than these Cosmati monuments, such as the tome of Cardinal Gonsalvo (1299) in S. Maria Maggiore, and that of William Durand (Fig. 59) in S. Maria sopra Minerva,5 and that of Cardinal Matteo d'Aquasparta6 in the Aracoeli — all three probably by Giovanni de' Cosmati (Johannes Cosmas), the grandson of the first of these artists.

Curiously enough, these Cosmati are not mentioned by Vasari; but he mentions a Roman artist, Cavallini by name, whose works and existence are so undiscoverable that some have believed him to be a fiction. Vasari asserts that this Cavallini executed the façade and some of the mosaics of S. Paolo fuori (later destroyed by fire) and also the fine lower portion of the great apsidal mosaic of S. Maria in Trastevere, already mentioned. He is also believed by some to have had some share in the Navicella, which is generally attributed to Giotto. But nothing certain is known of him.

It was not, however, only in Rome that a new spirit began to manifest itself towards the end of the twelfth century. In Sicily, as will be remembered, during the days of King Roger and William the Good (c. 1130‑90) magnificent mosaics were put up in the churches of Palermo, Monreale, Cefalú, and other paces; and these mosaics, though they doubtless owe much to Byzantine influence, show a power and originality of their own. At Venice too, although Byzantine influences were very strong and persistent, and were naturally strengthened by the Latin conquest of Constantinople (1204) and the consequent advent of many Byzantine artists and workmen, nevertheless we find in some of the mosaics of this period in St. Mark's and at Torcello a very distinct break with Byzantine tradition and a surprising display of animation and natural expression.

And in other parts of North Italy were to be seen soon afterwards unmistakable signs of the new-awakened life that was beginning to stir beneath the dust of centuries. Thus S. Frediano in Lucca has on its façade a (much restored) mosaic of about 1200 which is new in character, and in the Florentine S. Miniato we have a fine and certainly non-Byzantine mosaic of about 1280; and as a still earlier example (c. 1260) we may take the vault frescos in Parma Baptistery, which display a most wonderful vigour and vehemence — angels flying rapidly, Apostles and prophets hurrying as if each were trying to outrun the other.

Whence such new life originates it is never easy — it is perhaps impossible — to detect. Did it in this case, as some believe, come from beyond the Alps? Surely, what little we know of Northern art at this period makes us reject such a theory with something like ridicule. What shall we say, again, to the assertion that not only in the case of sculpture and poetry but also in that of mosaics and painting the new spirit came from the south — from Apulian or Sicilian sources? Perhaps it is wisest to listen unconvinced to such theories and to continue all the more zealously and lovingly our quest for what is great and beautiful, assured that often the search for the truth is of more importance than its supposed discovery.

(2) Architecture. In former chapters I have pointed out some of the characteristics of basilican, Byzantine, and Romanesque architecture. Here I shall add a few remarks on the origin and nature of Italian Gothic, the first important example of which date from the early years of the thirteenth century.

Considerably earlier than the thirteenth century attempts were made in Italy to solve certain constructive difficulties by applying the device of the pointed arch and the ribbed vault. The pointed arch is found in Sicilian Norman and in Saracen architecture, and the genuine ribbed vault, which by many is regarded as the fundamental principle7 of Gothic, may be seen as well as Gothic-like shafts and pilasters shooting upwards from the piers as a roof-support, in the aisles and nave of S. Ambrogio at Milan, the date of which is said to be about 1050.

Whether the new principles originated in countries north of the Alps (possibly first adopted, as Ruskin believed, in order to meet the necessities of wooden buildings) and were introduced thence into Italy at this early age, or whether they were spontaneously generated in Italy itself and adapted to the exigencies of Italian architecture, is a question perhaps insoluble. It seems to me to be quite clear, though the distinction is not always clearly made, that there are at least two very distinct types of Italian Gothic — one a direct importation and the other a genuine Italian development of the principle of the broken arc as applied to vaulting and to colonnades and windows. As a striking example of the directly imported typed I would cite S. Andrea at Vercelli, built (c. 1220) perhaps by an English architect and furnished with a dome, western towers, and buttresses, like a Northern Gothic church. Also a very interesting specimen of imported French Gothic is the little (much rebuilt) church of S. Maria della Spina at Pisa, founded in 1230. Of genuine Italian Gothic the finest early examples are probably S. Croce and S. Maria Novella and the Duomo at Florence; for the cathedral of Siena, the façade of which shows the transition from Romanesque to Gothic, is externally of a florid and decorative style that is doubtless due to Northern influences; and the Duomo at Orvieto, which is of about the same date (c. 1290‑1310) and is sometimes described as the finest example of Italian Gothic, is indeed a very magnificent building, but is, if I am not mistaken, scarcely more an example of genuine Italian Gothic architecture than is Milan Cathedral.

The essential differences between Northern and Italian Gothic may be intimated in a few words.

First let us note that the fundamental principle of Greek and Roman architecture, as exemplified in the colonnade and architrave (and also in the solid cupola of the Pantheon) is that of vertical pressure — a dead weight on a vertical support — while the principle underlying Gothic is balance.8 By means of such balance enormous masses may be elevated and poised aloft, and, as we see in our Northern cathedrals, in order to support the thrust of such masses the walls, generally of no great thickness and weakened by the introduction of huge window, have to be propped by means of mighty external buttresses, attached or flying. Now in Northern Gothic all such constructive devices, both external and internal, were made decorative, with pinnacles, crockets, traceries, gargoyles, etc., by which process the beauty of pure form was disfigured and at the same time true artistic decoration, such as mosaics and frescos, were rendered almost impossible, whereas the Italians, while adopting the pointed arch (or broken arc) and developing from it the most wonderfully proportioned forms of beauty (such as the interior of S. Croce and such as Giotto's Campanile, both of which are incomparable specimens of pure form), did not allow constructive devices to usurp the province of decoration. They kept the beauty of constructive form and the beauty of decorative art distinct. Thus one glory of Giotto's Campanile is its constructive form — as graceful as that of a lily — and another glory is its rich marbles and sculptures and delicate mouldings. Again, the perfect proportions of the bare and 'barn-like' interior of S. Croce, when illuminated by early-morning light, are, in spite of all the disfiguring monuments, so lovely that (as Dante said of Casella's music) they quiet all the longings of one's soul; but that is not all that S. Croce offers us: if one steps into the Bardi or the Peruzzi chapel one finds oneself face to face with broad walls covered with Giotto's frescos — for which no Northern Gothic cathedral could easily find fitting surface.9 Think of Giotto's frescos, here or at Assisi, and try to imagine them in Westminster Abbey!

The following list of some of the principal Italian Gothic churches and palaces may be useful. Gothic palaces form a very characteristic and impressive feature of many North Italian towns. They are mostly of later date than the early Gothic churches and are products of Italian genius far more than are some of the churches mentioned below. Venetian Gothic, it will be remembered, was also a later product and possesses a very special character, having been subjected to various influences, among which was doubtless the Oriental.

CHURCHES.

At Vercelli, S. Andrea (begun c. 1220, perhaps by Brighintz, an Englishman?).

At Assisi, S. Francesco (c. 1228, by Jac. Tedesco of Meran? Also Upper Church, c. 1253, with Gothic portal, etc.)

At Pisa, S. M. della Spina (c. 1230, French Gothic), Campo Santo (c. 1270, by Giov. Pisano). Also S. Caterina and S. Michele, examples of 'Pisan-Gothic.'

At Siena, Duomo (begun c. 1210, cupola 1264, façade 1284‑1320).

At Orvieto, Duomo (c. 1290‑1310).

At Bologna, S. Francesco (c. 1250, with buttresses: horribly rebuilt), S. Giovanni in Monte, and S. Petronio (after the plan of Florentine Duomo).

At Verona, S. Anastasia (c. 1261).

At Florence, S. Maria Novella (begun 1278), S. Croce (begun 1294), Duomo (Arn. Cambio 1296‑1301, Giotto 1334‑6, Andrea Pisano 1336‑49), Campanile (1334 onwards).

At Rome the only old Gothic church is S. Maria sopra Minerva (built c. 1285, probably by the builders of S. Maria Novella).

At Venice, the church of the Frari (begun c. 1230, entirely rebuilt c. 1330‑1400; simple and rather clumsy imitation of Northern style), S. Giovanno e Paolo and S. Stefano (1333‑80? Much rebuilt; also heavy and inelegant style).

PALACES.

At Siena, (of about twenty-two palaces) Palazzo pubblico (1289‑1305) and Palazzo Buonsignori (c. 1350)

At Bologna, Palazzo Communale (1290)

At Florence, Palazzo Vecchio (1298‑1314)

At Pistoia, Palazzo Pretorio (c. 1350).

At Venice, (of about a hundred) Palazzo ducale (1310 onwards), and many others (Sangredo, Morosini, Cà d'oro, etc.) of later date and genuine Venetian Gothic style, the exquisite beauty of which we all know.

(3) Sculpture. The most important fact connected with Italian art of the thirteenth century is perhaps the sudden appearance of a new sculpture, and the question whence it so suddenly appeared opens up a subject on which a great deal has been written, but very little proved. Also here I shall have to limit myself to a few general impressions.

The rude and often repulsively grotesque character of medieval Italian sculpture, especially where it cam under Germanic influences, has been frequently indicated and illustrated in former chapters.

Some imagine that even before the thirteenth century they can detect symptoms of a revival, and it is indeed strange that with so many beautiful specimens of classic sculpture still extant and visible (such as sarcophagi, reliefs, etc.) this art should have become as totally extinct as that of painting; but even if the Roman scholae did keep alive through the Dark Ages any glimmering spark of ancient genius, all traces of their influence seem at last to have perished, and in spite of all the praise that has been lately lavished on certain stone-carvers, such as Gruamons, (c. 1170?) and Antelami (c. 1200) and the somewhat later Guido di Como and his son Guidetto, I think an inspection of their works at Lucca, Pistoia, Parma, and elsewhere will convince the unprejudiced that, although there may be some dignity in single figures (e.g. Antelami's Ezekiel and Guidetto's Saint Martin at Lucca). these productions belong to the same class, let us say, as the Monza lunette (p. 256) and that they stand at the end of an old order of things and not at the beginning of a new, being in no artistic sense predecessors of that famous Pisan pulpit whence, as an old writer says, issued forth, as from an Ark, the great sculptors of Tuscany. The reliefs on this hexagonal pulpit (for which see Fig. 61) offer the first truly artistic treatment of a Christian subject in sculpture, and the sudden, unheralded apparition of this work of noble design and classical technique at a time when in Italy — anyhow in North Italy — the sculptor's art was in a state of almost hopeless degeneracy is a startling fact. To stand before Niccolò's pulpit in the Pisan Baptistery after inspecting grotesque productions of his 'predecessors' — for instance, Bonanno's bronze doors in the south transept of the Duomo — excites a heart-throb such as I once experienced when, journeying oceanwards after long exile among wild tribes in Central Africa, I suddenly espied on the path a shard of porcelain — the fragment, perhaps, of a broken cup dropped by some Arab or European caravan.

The date of this work of Niccolò Pisano, who died c. 1278, is 1260. Some say that he was already well known as an architect and had been employed as such on the Duomo at Pisa and also at Siena. But there seems no satisfactory evidence of this, and it is likely that his pulpit first made him well-known. The question is, where and how did he acquire his wondrous skill?

Vasari asserts that Nicola (Niccolò) served as apprentice to certain scultori Greci employed on the ornamentation of the Pisan Duomo and Baptistery and attained his skill by studying Greek sarcophagi and monuments which stood in or near these edifices or were built into their walls;10 and that he especially studied and copied 'figures from the boar-hunt of Meleager' carved on a sarcophagus which had been 'placed by the Pisans in the façade of the Duomo and had been used as the tomb of the mother of Countess Matilda.' There is in the Campo Santo an old Roman sarcophagus with such a relief, but it shows no inscription such as that quoted by Vasari, nor is there anything in the pulpit suggested by this relief. However, another old sarcophagus (Fig. 31), half of whose relief shows Phaedra and Hippolytus and half the boar-hunt, has an inscription stating that it was the burial-place of Beatrice, Matilda's mother; and this displays figures from which Niccolò certainly drew inspiration. There is also a large and beautiful Greek vase of Parian marble, with a Bacchanalian procession which doubtless offered him various suggestions, especially for his High Priest. But his wonderful reliefs contain no direct imitation. Nevertheless, everyone who feels the indescribable grace and dignity of ancient sculpture must at once recognize the like spirit — not perhaps in artistic composition, which is such a wonderful characteristic of the best ancient relief, but in the beauty and truth and vigour of form and the nobility of expression. By some wonderful recreative power the divine, angelic, and sainted personae of the Christian hierarchy are presented to us — not, as sometimes in old mosaics, under the disguise of classic armour or apparel, but as veritable Greek deities, heroes, and heroines. The Madonna — evidently inspired by the Phaedra of the sarcophagus — has the regal brow and pose of Juno. Gabriel is like some new-lighted Mercury, the Magi reminding one of Minos or old King Priam. Even the horses of the Magi are Pheidian.

When one begins to think how it could be possible to achieve all this by a mere study of certain old carvings, one may be tempted to agree with writers who assert that every intelligent critic must smile at such an absurd suggestion. But there are possibilities in the sphere of human genius that are not dreamed of by such philosophers, and, ingenious as the following theory is, I think the enthusiasm that always attends the discovery of a mare's-nest may account for the favour with which in some quarters it has been received.

We are informed that Niccolò of Pisa (on the pulpit he is called 'Pisanus') was really an Apulian. An old document styles him 'Nicolaus Pietri de Apulia,' thus asserting rather ambiguously that either he or his father Peter came from the south, or perhaps got the sobriquet form having visited Apulia. One may be quite willing to accept any of these four possibilities; but when one is told that Niccolò acquired his wonderful skill as sculptor in south Italy, one naturally asks what proof there is that the art of sculpture in those regions and at that period was so far advanced as to admit of this possibility. One remembers Sicilian mosaics, and bronze doors, mostly traceable to Byzantine artists, and one or two fairly executed reliefs, and some interesting specimens of architecture — but nothing else except one single pulpit; and on this Ravello pulpit (Fig. 62) these writers seemingly base their theory that the fons et origo of Tuscan sculpture was Apulia.

There is certainly a certain resemblance between the Ravello and the Pisan pulpit, and the device of columns resting on lions indubitably shows Lombard influence in both cases. But there is nothing at Ravello (except some well-executed busts) that bears any resemblance to the Pisan sculptures — and surely these are the point of importance.

Now according to the inscription on this Ravello pulpit Nicolaus de Fogia marmorarius hoc opus fecit, and we are told that this was Niccolò, son of Bartolomeo of Foggia (a favourite residence of Frederick II), and that he was doubtless a relative of the Niccolò who migrated to North Italy and made the similar Pisan pulpit.

All this is, of course, possible; but I really think it more probable that our Niccolò was a native-born Pisan, and that the 'Pietri de Apulia' should be explained by supposing that his father visited and perhaps for a time resided in the south — Pisa at that time having been a great maritime power and in constant connexion with South Italian ports. And seeing that the date of the Ravello pulpit is most assuredly 1271, I think it reasonable to suppose that, if Niccolò had any connexion at all with it, he, or some pupil of his, may have been invited to Ravello — or to Naples, whither Giotto was invited later — and may have designed and perhaps executed the work on somewhat the same lines as the Pisan pulpit.

However that may be, it is incontestable that Niccolò was the founder of that Tuscan school of great sculptors of whom Michelangelo was perhaps the greatest.

With his son Giovanni, Niccolò wrought also (1265‑68) the beautiful Siena pulpit (Fig. 63) and the Deposition lunette over the door of the Duomo at Lucca, which Crowe and Cavalcaselle call the best bit of sculpture of the thirteenth century. (For the sculptures on Domenic's tomb see Fig. 52 and explanations.) A scholar of Giovanni's was Andrea Pisano (1273‑1348), the fellow-worker of Giotto on the Campanile and the creator of one of the wonderful bronze doors of the Florentine Baptistery.

(4) Painting. It would in any case be beside my purpose to give biographical details that can be found in multitudinous books on the early Tuscan artists, and as the thousand years or so covered by this volume do not extend to the end of Giotto's life it will be better to defer our consideration of the origins of Italian painting until Giotto's work and its later developments can be traced. I shall therefore limit myself here to certain points connected with the question whether Florence was or was not the cradle of this new-born art of painting, taking it for granted that none would be so bold as to deny that Tuscany was its home.

The fact that the revival of the art of sculpture preceded the new birth of painting in Italy is, of course, due to the survival of ancient statues, sarcophagi, and other monuments and the non-survival of ancient paintings, except such as had not yet been excavated at Pompeii and elsewhere. And first let us decide whether we may speak of the new birth, or even the re‑creation, of the art of painting in contradistinction to the revival, or resuscitation, of the art of sculpture. Are we to say that the life of all true pictorial art had become totally extinct? Are we to regard Byzantine painting as a gorgeous mummy, incapable of transmitting any vital spark of life? Are we to scout the suggestion that Roman and Tuscan mosaics bridged the abyss of more than a thousand years and made it quite easy, for, say, Cimabue to find his way across to the City Beautiful? May we affirm that genius is able to bridge all abysses for itself and needs no transmission of ethereal flame, but is capable of artistic creation in absolute independence of that law of natural evolution which forbids a break in continuity? Yes, I think we will dare to do so.

In Tuscany at the beginning of the thirteenth century the Byzantine style seems to have prevailed largely. As this Byzantine style was doubtless introduced into North Italy via Venice it may seem surprising that it did not prevail still more in Lombardy. But the fact is that in Lombardy at that period neither the Byzantine nor any other style prevailed, seeing that painting itself scarcely existed.11 At Florence, on the contrary, the number of artists was so large that when Dante was young more than twenty maestri, it is said, had studios there — perhaps many of them in the old Via de' Pittori. And these were doubtless all 'Greeks,' or else Italians who had studied the technique and the traditions of the Byzantine school of painting — and what this technique and these traditions were we have already seen.

Among the apprentices of some such painter12 was doubtless the youth Giovanni Cenni, known better under his adopted name Cimabue, who 'was born,' as Vasari truly says, 'to shed the first light on the art of painting' — or as we may perhaps say, to reanimate with life the mummy of Byzantine art.

This new light, or life, this wondrous quality that distinguishes even the early attempts of the new school from the pictures of the preceding 'Greek painters,' may be felt, if not described, by those who in a receptive, leisurely, and uncritical state of mind will, after inspecting a few Byzantine icons, spend, say half an hour in the presence of the Rucellai Madonna.

The difference is not so obvious perhaps as it is when we compare the Pisan pulpit with Antelami's reliefs on the Baptistery at Parma, but it is, I think, as essential. It is the difference between what possesses life — anyhow, the potency of life — and what is lifeless.

The chief work of Cimabue was probably done in connexion with the celebrated frescos at Assisi, where Giotto at first worked under his direction; but of the elder master's work there little or nothing can be certainly recognized. Also of the numerous altar-pieces attributed to him by Vasari three only are extant. One is in the Louvre; the other two are at Florence, namely, that which he painted for the church of della Trinità and which hangs now in the Accademia side by side with a somewhat similar work by Giotto, and the beautiful and noble Rucellai Madonna, which was painted for, and is still to be seen within, S. Maria Novella.

Latter-day sceptics, mostly German, have denied that Cimabue painted any of these three pictures, and on the ground of some old document that mentions a commission offered (1285) by the monks of S. Maria Novella to the Sienese painter Duccio they insist that we shall believe Duccio to have painted this Madonna of the Cappella Rucellai. To argue the point is here impossible. I can only state my conviction. Duccio's vast 'Ancona' with its twenty-six scenes from the life of Christ, although it is wooden and vapid in execution, does certainly display the influence of the new style (of Giotto rather than of Cimabue) in regard to attempted animation and expression; but this 'Ancona,' as such an alter-piece is called, was not painted till about 1311, and earlier paintings by this master, to be seen in the Siena Gallery, show scarcely a sign of liberation from the shackles of Byzantinism. That also at Siena there were towards the end of the thirteenth century some painters, such as Guido and Duccio, who were affected by the new movement cannot be doubted, but that on the strength of the evidence adduced we are to regard Siena, and not Florence, as the cradle of the new art of painting I think we may without hesitation permit ourselves to deny.

 

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1 It will be remembered that also the fifth-century mosaics in S. Maria Maggiore show a very curious pagan treatment of Christian subjects (see p. 270).

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2 It likewise affected the art of bronze-relief — a fact very noticeable when one compares the Florentine Baptistery work of Andrea Pisano and the exceedingly beautiful but too 'picturesque' work of Ghiberti.

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3 It is interesting to compare the new, picturesque, and animated style of Giotto's Navicella with the impressive dignity of his master Cimabue's mosaic (Christ and St. John) in the apse of Pisa Cathedral.

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4 Also the very beautiful inlaid pavements (opus Alexandrinum) seen in many old Roman churches, such as S. Maria Maggiore and S. Maria in Trastevere, are sometimes attributed to the Cosmati.

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5 The only old Gothic church in Rome — now horribly disfigured, but still interesting for its vaulting.

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6 Mentioned by Dante. In the Aracoeli is also a fine Cosmati tomb (of the Savelli) of about 1280.

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7 The difficulty of vaulting oblong and other spaces where the altitudes of the arcs are different is solved by the use of a pointed arch, or rather of a broken arc, i.e. two similar curves placed at an angle less than the bend of a circle.

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8 See remarks on Romanesque Architecture, p. 437.S

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9 One result of this love of surface is the greater breadth of the Italian arches, which makes a nave, such as that of the Florentine Duomo, look shorter than it is, whereas English and French Gothic naves, with their more pointed and numerous arches, give the impression of much greater length. And here let me once more note that, whatever claims to admiration it may possess, a Northern Gothic cathedral, held together by external buttresses, seems not to possess that entirety which is supposed to be essential to a work of art, for when one is inside the building these buttresses, without which the whole would collapse, are out of sight, so that an effort is necessary to assure oneself that they exist and to allay a feeling of anxiety. In Italian Gothic one has no such sensations.

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10 The Campo Santo, though used as a cemetery from 1203, was first surrounded by its Gothic arcades by Giovanni Pisano, son of Niccolò, in 1270, and when Niccolò made his pulpit (1260) these sarcophagi and monuments, says Vasari, had not been placed in the arcades. Indeed the Beatrice sarcophagus was first moved thither in 1810.

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11 As also in Germany. At an earlier period at Aachen Charles the Great put up mosaics stolen from Ravenna, and in his castle at Ingelheim, between Mainz and Bingen, there were great frescos representing such celebrities as Romulus, Alexander, Hannibal, Charles Martel, etc.; but all this has disappeared, and the relics of c. 1150‑1250 only show coarsely outlined and coloured wall-paintings with evidences of Byzantine influence. (The famous tapestries of Quedlinburg, c. 1200, are puzzling exception.) One may note in passing that for two centuries after 1200 (i.e. down to the days of the Van Eycks) German painting was very much hampered by the dominating influence of the Gothic principle of constructive decoration, which not only limited the artist to altar-pieces, but reduced his pictures to narrow fields, such as heavily framed triptychs.

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12 Vasari says that the young Cimabue watched 'Greek painters' at work in S. Maria Novella. But this church was founded in 1278, when Cimabue was thirty-eight years old!