Chapter II (2)

Two of Bramante’s palaces at Rome, the Cancelleria and the Palazzo dei Rei d’Inghilterra, at first pleased him much by their general character of solidity and breadth, and in the former case he noticed with delight the delicacy both of design and execution in the ornaments, and the perfect finish of every detail. There appeared, however, a want of boldness in the low relief of the great fronts, which seemed tame after the Farnese. “But his great objection was to the use of two orders, even when they were in low relief, and when the unity of the height was preserved by the importance of the upper cornice. The best examples of North Italy could not reconcile him to this ‘piling of house upon house.’ In later days the beauties of the Banqueting-house at Whitehall so prevailed with him, that he frequently used order upon order in his own designs: but hardly ever without breaking the entablatures. By the continuous vertical lines so produced the two stories were united, and his love of unity satisfied. But at Rome this expedient would have shocked him as barbarous.”

Before he left Italy he acquired a taste for greater luxuriance of ornament and greater boldness of outline, and looked on the style of Bramante as fit only for small works and for interiors. “The Villa Pandolfini at Florence proved to him how much could be done, even in a front of small extent, by means of a good frieze and cornice. He noticed as defects the stunted proportions of the windows and the continuation of the entablatures across the piers between them; but above all he disliked the great projection of the lower story. For this so distinctly broke up the elevation into two stories that the cornice and frieze, well-proportioned to the entire height, appeared overpowering. But notwithstanding these defects, when he was at work on the street-front of the Travellers’ Club, no building had so much influence in determining its general style as the Villa Pandolfini.”

The palatial fronts at Vicenza and Venice did not take the same hold upon him as those at Rome and Florence. “The Library of St. Mark at Venice, the greater Porto Palace by Palladio at Vicenza, and others of the same kind, had not only the cardinal vice of superimposed orders, but were offensive by the multiplicity and prominence of their details.... To engaged columns--’colonnades walled up’--he had a great dislike; and when, as at the Board of Trade, he had to employ them, he always relieved them from the wall by grounds or margins. Even then they never thoroughly satisfied him. The disposition of the windows (grouped in the centre) in some of the smaller Gothic and other palaces at Venice was noted by him with approval, and was not forgotten when he was designing the garden-front of the Travellers’ Club. Of palace fronts, in which an order was employed, he was most struck with those of the public prisons at Venice and Palladio’s Thiene Palace at Vicenza.”

The Ducal Palace, magnificent as he felt it to be, did not satisfy him. Of the beauty of the arcaded stories he was fully sensible, nor did he object to arcaded exteriors in general. “But no consideration could reconcile him to arcades or colonnades supporting, as here, a heavy mass of building. Whatever might be the character of the superstructure, he required that the lower part of the building should be comparatively solid and plain; the reverse appeared unnatural. In the finest portico he was not satisfied unless the basement (or the steps) was equal in mass to the pediment above. Even in the river-front of his new Palace at Westminster he rejected the idea (once entertained) of introducing a cloister; and was so jealous of the solidity and plainness of his basement, that he grudged every window and would hardly enrich a gateway.”

In the study of details of arrangement he was somewhat discouraged by considerations of the great differences between Italy and England as to climate and life. “The open _cortile_, surrounded with arches or colonnades, was a feature which delighted him, and which he often longed to introduce. There was one in his first design for the Reform Club. But in England he felt that a central hall had the advantage both in convenience and in effect. He suggested in after years the covering in of the area of the Royal Exchange and of the still more spacious area of the British Museum. His delight in a great central hall became a passion.”

The great staircases might have served more immediately as models; but he had peculiar ideas on this subject, which interfered with his admiration of those usually deemed most excellent. “Where scenic effect was given by various flights of steps, arcades, and columns, he seemed to think that space was sacrificed and a grand hall spoilt. He did not like to see ‘steps hanging in the air’ or supported by cumbrous walls; and sudden changes in the direction of the flights annoyed him. His ideal staircase was a grand straight flight, the whole space, however great, being occupied by the steps; but if this were impossible, he required that all that could be seen at one view should be straight, and preferred the staircase, so common in Italy, where each separate flight is enclosed in solid walls.”

In Italy he first acquired that liking for visible roofs, which he afterwards showed, both in his Italian and Gothic works. He approved of them, because, being essential features, they ought not to be concealed; because, in fact, their visible appearance was the proof that the building was covered and was not a mere shell.

“To rustic work he had at first a great aversion. In substruction it might be tolerated, but elsewhere its employment seemed to him indefensible, and a rusticated column monstrous.” His admiration for Sanmicheli’s works, especially that at Lido, first shook his determination; at home his delight in the work of Inigo Jones carried on the process of conversion; and he himself afterwards used what at this time he would have proscribed.

His study of the Italian palaces was minute and elaborate, and produced the greatest effect upon his own future works. The great churches, though not less carefully studied, had less direct influence. The Gothic revival in England had begun to make itself felt, and his thoughts were already turned in that direction, although he had probably at this time less knowledge of Gothic than of any other style. He was not then, nor did he ever become, an admirer of Italian Gothic. None of its forms appeared to him to be free from the characteristics of other recognised styles; some appeared corrupt Roman, others impure Gothic; and not even the eloquence and ability of their modern advocates could make him approve their revival.

But the great churches, though they could hardly be models for imitation, yet demanded admiration and criticism.

St. Peter’s disappointed him greatly in its elevation. He thought it had “a confused appearance and want of simple grandeur;” that “the openings in the centre were too crowded,” and that “the three-quarter columns, always objectionable, did not afford sufficient relief.” The details he greatly disliked. He noticed especially the want of apparent size in a building, one of the largest in the world, and accounted for it by the presence of colossal figures on the top of the façade, without anything to give the true scale,[21] by the want of sufficient projection in the front, and the enormous size of the windows, and by the impossibility of seeing any great part of the dome from the piazza, whence alone the whole substructure was visible. On the whole he much preferred the exterior of St. Paul’s, in spite of the “piling of order upon order,” which was a departure from Wren’s original design; he preferred its regularity of design to “the complicated front and lofty attic of St. Peter’s;” he thought the circular peristyle of columns under the dome far finer than the corresponding substructure in the other case; and, if only the churchyard could be enlarged, he thought that its complete insulation, and the fine perspective views which it offers, gave it a decided advantage in position and apparent grandeur.

It was far otherwise with the general effect of the interior of St. Peter’s. Its magnificent size, satisfying his love of spaciousness, its beautiful proportions and simplicity of design, its richness and completeness of decoration, producing a sense of harmony and perfection, seized his imagination at once, and seemed to “leave nothing to be desired.” Its details he thought unworthy of special notice; but not so its decoration. The decoration of the dome delighted him; but the gem in his eyes was the baptistery. There the arrangement of marbles and mosaics seemed perfect, both in colour and form; it constantly recurred to him in designing, and had much to do with fixing his taste for that gorgeous kind of decoration. He delighted also in the gilding of the vault. Being wholly gilt (either dead or burnished gold), it seemed not gilt, but golden. This was to him real magnificence; “parcel-gilding” was gaudy, and he held it in contempt. This vault and the ceiling of Sta. Maria Maggiore were models which he would have gladly followed in his designs, and it was with reluctance that he gave up the idea of making the roof of his House of Lords all gold.

The piazza in front of St. Peter’s, with its semicircular colonnades and magnificent fountains, greatly impressed him. The remembrance of it constantly floated before his memory as the ideal of the proper treatment of such a spot; and he long cherished a hope of realizing his ideal in London.[22]

The portico of the Pantheon he thought perfect in plan, and magnificent in effect. He admired its great depth, the increase of this in the centre, and above all the disposition of the inner columns, which gave apparent stability and variety of effect, without confusing the eye or obstructing the approach. He never could endure a portico which was shallow, or which had no inner columns, or which had the wall, the background of the columns, broken up by windows. But the junction to the circular building appeared to him unhappy. In fact he objected _in toto_ to the treatment of a portico as a mere porch, thinking that in all cases the portico should be a continuation of the main building.[23] The interior he used to quote as the finest example in the world of the grandeur of a dome, when sufficiently large, and sufficiently near the eye to be comprehended in one glance. Domes like that of St. Peter’s, which could only be seen by a painful throwing back of the neck, seemed to him wrong in principle. For at all times he held, that interiors should be so contrived that a spectator on entering should see enough of the design to enable him to comprehend the whole, and that, when this was not the case, there was a distraction of thought, fatal to any striking effect.

The exterior of the cathedral at Florence seemed to him grand only in size, “unworthy to be compared with our best Gothic cathedrals;” and the arrangement of black and white marbles such as to destroy both massiveness of general effect and beauty of form in its various parts. The dome, as the largest in the world, and the first constructed after St. Sophia, called for attentive study, especially in construction; but it convinced him that “polygonal domes should be avoided, especially when ribbed and of few sides. If, on looking directly at the dome, you do not see exactly an equal portion of the two remote sides, the perspective gives an untrue figure; and when the ribs are prominent and far removed from each other, this effect is increased.” The general architecture seemed to him a vicious mixture of Roman and Gothic, though details, especially the beautiful external cornice running round the building, were worthy of study and admiration.

On entering he acknowledged that the effect was simple and imposing, in apparent size grander than St. Peter’s, and even approaching the sublime. But the details appeared to him unworthy of special notice.

The Campanile was one of the few specimens of Italian Gothic which commanded his warm admiration. He longed for the spire (which had been rejected as savouring of “la brutta maniera Tedesca”): but the lofty and graceful proportion of the tower charmed him. What he admired above all was the simplicity and distinctness of outline, which, he complained, was wanting in many of the finest Gothic towers. Nothing compensated him for a ragged or uncertain outline. His constant reference to this great work of Giotto showed that the impression was one neither weak, nor unfruitful of results. A liking for towers grew upon him; designs for them became the most cherished creations of his imagination, till he seemed to think that no design could be complete without them.

His notices of Milan cathedral are chiefly interesting as showing the growing importance of Gothic architecture in his mind. At his first visit he was merely struck with the elaborate richness of its material and workmanship, and the solemn magnificence of its interior. At his return in 1820, an accurate plan and section of the church are given; the grandeur of the interior is still more deeply felt; and some points, such as the introduction of the tabernacle-niches and statues over each cluster of shafts, noticed as interfering with it. But, while justice is still done to the richness and elaboration of the exterior, it is severely criticised. The “pinnacles are noted as rising too suddenly out of the solid mass to an enormous height;” the lantern-spire “as far too slender for the substructure;” the general design noted as “unhappy; much of its laboured enrichment is mis-applied; there is a want of harmony and continuity in its parts; and the sensation created is rather that of wonder at the treasures lavished upon it, than of genuine admiration.”

At Florence the Bridge della Trinita was an object of especial interest to him. “As it was still a question what was the exact form of its arches, and particularly whether they were or were not pointed, he determined to measure two of them, and, as time and means were wanting to accomplish this from below, he ingeniously set out level lines on the outside of the parapet, and let fall a series of ordinates to the fillet of the archivolt. After a long and careful investigation, he came to the conclusion that the arches were not designed to be pointed; but the original curve had been so crippled by irregular settlement, that its exact nature could not now be ascertained. He greatly admired the elegance of proportions in the arch and superstructure. To the curve itself, however, he had a decided objection. He had, and always retained, an antipathy to the ellipse and all which he considered irregular curves. Whether in single arches or vaulting, no curves pleased him that were not portions of circles, and whenever in the course of his practice semicircular vaulting would have destroyed proportion, he would adopt a coved ceiling, or any other expedient, rather than resort to the hated ellipse. In his first design for the new Westminster Bridge, the arches were segments of circles, and it was not without difficulty that he could be induced to substitute the ellipse. Even in Gothic work he never willingly employed a Tudor arch; but, where cramped for height, he preferred the arch formed by two flat segments of circles, making an angle with the jambs (as seen in certain windows at Winchester). Irregularity in curves excited in him a feeling that was absolutely painful.”

In this indefatigable study and criticism he passed the last few months of his sojourn abroad. They were months of intense enjoyment: for his spirits were buoyant, his disposition frank and genial. Work he always loved for its own sake, and difficulties he rather enjoyed.[24] But they were also months of serious thought and study. “It was evident” (says his friend) “that the leading principles of composition which influenced him throughout his career were already rooted in his mind.”

First and foremost came a love of truth. “The false in architecture he abhorred; and all external features, which did not at least indicate the internal design, he condemned ruthlessly. Even a blank window offended him. The showy but screen-like façades, so often applied in Italy to comparatively mean buildings, were to him impostures, worthy of contempt.”

Next came a love of unity and regularity. “That he had an artist’s eye for the picturesque was certain from the happy choice he was sure to make of the best points of view for sketching. But actually to plan irregularity, because it was picturesque, he thought unworthy of the dignity of art.” Every feature, especially every ornamental feature, he would rigidly subordinate to the preservation of the main outline and the main principle of the design, sometimes even at the cost of boldness and variety. Unity rather than multiplicity of effect he thought the object of human art--a lower beauty indeed than that which results from the unstudied harmony of Nature, but the only one which seemed to him really attainable. This view he continued to maintain, and, though he saw much beauty in works designed on the opposite principle, yet the observation of their general effect tended to confirm him in his theory.

Connected with this was his great love of the effect of spaciousness. The church “degli Angeli,” in the Baths of Diocletian at Rome, made a lasting impression upon him. “Its noble proportions and simplicity of design satisfied this instinctive desire of space, for the loss of which no variety of plan and no picturesque effect could compensate. No sooner did he enter a building than he measured with a glance its utmost capacity; and all that stood in his way,--piers, columns, and sometimes even the vault itself,--became obstructions which he longed to clear away.” In the grand nave above referred to the same feeling led him to dislike the position of the entrance at the side. In all great oblong halls he would have the door at the end, that the whole might be seen at first entrance. Except by necessity, he never gave up this principle.

Probably the next point most evident in his criticism was the love of perfection and completeness in detail. Nothing disturbed him so much as incongruity or want of keeping in the various parts of a design; the mingling of grandeur with pettiness, and of rich decoration with bare and unadorned features,[25] seemed an offence against harmony; and he held that the hand of a master of his art was almost as much shown in the study and adaptation of every detail, as in the conception of a great general design. With this was connected his keen sense of symmetry and proportion. “The least offence against either--a single feature out of scale, an opening too narrow, or even a moulding too heavy--jarred upon him like a discord.” This sensitiveness was in fact carried to excess; “a single fault in a composition would blind him to its beauties; it needed to be overcome by an effort on his part or even the promptings of others; and it necessarily made him hypercritical, for, no building being perfect, he was rarely heard to praise any.” It is but fair to add that in this same hypercriticism he never spared his own designs, whether past or present, and often incurred by it almost endless labour.

These principles fixed in his mind, he left Italy, well acquainted with Greek, Egyptian, and Italian architecture, and with his interest and attention already attracted to the reviving Gothic. The work of life was now to commence in earnest; he was resolved to enter it fettered by the traditions of no single school, ready to think and work for himself.

It will be easily seen that the hopes with which he had gone abroad had been fully realized. The very fact of his travels gave him a position in the eyes of the world, of which he might easily have made much more, had he carried out his intention of publication. He had gained acquaintances in the artistic world and in ordinary society, and his character and talents excited a general expectation that he would achieve fame and success. But the really important advantage was the kindling in himself of artistic energy and a sense of power, and the extraordinary development of his mind in knowledge, criticism, and ideas. Most men are conscious of some period in their life on which such an awakening influence acts, when the boundaries of thought seem to expand, when new ideas and powers make themselves felt, and the idea of some great object in life is definitely grasped. Such a period is one of intense happiness and of priceless value. It came to him during these three years of travel, and he returned to England a changed man.