4. Vallombrosa and more

On losing one's train of thought to music

And Vallombrosa, we two went to see

Last June, beloved companion, – where sublime

The mountains live in holy families,

And the slow pinewoods ever climb and climb

Half way up their breasts, just stagger as they seize

Some grey crag – drop back with it many a time,

And straggle blindly down the precipice!

The Vallombrosan brooks were strewn as thick

That June-day, knee-deep, with dead beechen leaves,

As Milton saw them ere his heart grew sick,

And his eyes blind. [...]

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in Casa Guidi Windows (1851)

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Many are the poets and artists who have sought out the peace and quiet of Vallombrosa and its surrounding forest, far from the bustle of Florence. Although it is unclear whether John Milton ever actually stayed there - as the penultimate verse of the quote suggests - Mary Shelley, Frances Trollope, John Ruskin, William Wordsworth, Friedrich Nietzsche, and many others certainly did. The pine forest and the Benedictine abbey, founded in 1036, were a favourite destination for European tourists on their Grand Tour, and attracted regular local tourism well into the 1960s and 1970s. 

In my case, I was following in the footsteps of Louis Gauffier, to track down the vistas of four landscapes he painted around the Abbey of Vallombrosa, during his stay there in 1797. I left Florence by bus on Wednesday morning, and arrived in the Hotel Croce di Savoia in the early afternoon.  It was a grand building, with a long entrance, a spacious lobby, and a large carpeted flight of stairs which led to the rooms. The dining area, fully decorated in pink, with paper flowers hanging from the ceiling, and mirrors on all the walls, looked as if it could have inspired Wes Anderson’s Grand Budapest Hotel - I felt like one of his characters whenever I stepped into it. Up the flight of stairs, down a corridor, and there was my room. It had the luxury of a balcony overlooking… a parking place. But beyond the cars and the bins, the view opened onto the vallombrosan hills and forest.

Now and then. Left : Louis Gauffier, Farewell to the monks at Vallombrosa, 1797, oil on canvas, The Philadelphia Museum of Art

It was a view I enjoyed for a short while before setting off to the abbey. I had tried to get in touch with the monks there, but to no avail. It seemed that they were open to visitors only during July and August - I had arrived a few weeks too late… Although I don’t think I would have been able to stay there anyway: back in the day, Elizabeth Barrett Browning herself was very unhappy to discover that, as a woman, she wasn’t allowed to stay in the monastery with her husband Robert. She slept outside with her maid. In which case, my hotel was definitely more comfortable. 

I spent the afternoon exploring the area. Behind the abbey, I took a forest path up into the hills, up to the Paradisino, a building initially intended for monks seeking extra reclusion, and now an education centre for students in Forest Sciences of the University of Florence. From its terrace, one has a stunning view over the valley and the abbey complex. I spotted the places which inspired Gauffier’s paintings, and I could just imagine him there, beside me, sketching away, focused on his work, occasionally chatting to passer-bys. 

However, much had changed since he had trodden the vallombrosan soil - apart from the structural elements of the landscape of course. The Paradisino, the rocks at the Vicano waterfall, the artificial basin in front of the abbey were all there, but both the waterfall and the artificial lake were dried up: there were no vallombrosan brooks to be found. After such a dry summer, it is hardly surprising. Times are definitely changing. In his landscapes, he had also included several monks and tourists, and yet I was alone - except for a Belgian couple and their dog. The whole area felt absolutely deserted. 

Now and then. Left : Louis Gauffier, View of Falls of Vicano at Vallombrosa, 1797, oil on canvas, Fine Arts Museum of SanFranscisco.

I returned to the hotel in the late afternoon and spent the evening there. The weather had been overcast all day, and just as I was going to sleep, it finally broke. The wind picked up and started furiously rattling the windows, the rain started pounding down in a heavy shower, and as I tossed and turned, unable to drop off, I heard a man’s voice echoing in the hotel. It was powerful and tantalising. He was singing  Italian songs, the words of which I could not pick out, as his voice mingled with the sounds of the wild weather. There were still many people up and about, I could hear footsteps, doors banging, furniture being dragged along the floor, other voices sometimes. After a Wes Anderson film, I had somehow ended up in a Gothic novel - I felt like poor Catherine Morland in Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey. I couldn’t understand where all the noises were coming from - in the dining hall that evening, there had only been a handful of guests. 

It felt as if I spent the night puzzling over this, and yet I must have fallen asleep at some point, since I woke up with my alarm. Opening the window, I saw the signs of the storm : overturned pots of plants in the parking place, and garden furniture on the balcony still dripping wet. The weather had cleared somewhat, but it was still chilly and overcast. Up here in the hills, the heat and stickiness of Florence seemed so distant. After breakfast, I had hoped to go for another walk, but the clouds still promised rain, so I stayed at the hotel to plan the following days. 

Across the room from me, there was a piano. As I was settling into writing this piece, a middle-aged man sat down and started playing. Around him, a few men and a woman gathered and started singing. Their voices echoed throughout the hotel, the piano music filled the whole space, right into the last corners, and through the large bay windows, the trees shook as if to the music itself. So it was their voices which had mingled with the wind and my dreams the night before ! They moved from an international to an Italian repertoire, and then another woman working at a table beside me broke into song too, enabling me to enjoy  the music in stereo. I couldn’t understand much, but truth be told, even their spoken interludes were music to my ears. The group was ever-changing, with people coming and going, joining in and dropping out - but always the man at the piano, accompanying, singing, playing, chatting, and laughing.  

I had so many things I wanted to write about this week. There was my visit to the Uffizi Gallery on Tuesday, and of the Palazzo Pitti on Friday, I wanted to write about travelling art, about looted art, about art stolen during wars, and art which was subsequently returned. There were countless ties between the collections I had visited which I wanted to explore and share with you. There were all the masterpieces and the lesser-known works which I have seen and which I wanted to write about. But it all had to wait - the beauty of that moment in the hotel lobby demanded my whole and undivided attention. My train of thought dissipated into the music, only leaving behind a few incoherent phrases.

And what they left behind, when they concluded the musical interlude, were the echo of their voices and a lonely piano. And then there was the steady thrum of the rain outside. It was a dull, relentless autumn shower. I had written nothing. The moment ended, and so must this article, which was never supposed to be. Here is their echo : ancora, ancora. 

The group singing Ancora by Eduardo de Crescenzo (1981)

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785 kms, 14 hours spent on trains, and 6 museums or exhibitions visited.

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