The Italians | Page 6

and
disappears, the palace windows and balconies empty themselves, the
street forms are vacant. The procession in honor of the Holy
Countenance is forming; every one has rushed off to the cathedral.
CHAPTER II.
THE CATHEDRAL OF LUCCA.
Martino, the cathedral of Lucca, stands on one side of a small piazza
behind the principal square. At the first glance, its venerable aspect,
vast proportions, and dignity of outline, do not sufficiently seize upon
the imagination; but, as the eye travels over the elaborate façade,
formed by successive galleries supported by truncated pillars, these

galleries in their turn resting on clustered columns of richest sculpture
forming the triple portals--the fine inlaid work, statues, bass-relief,
arabesques of fruit, foliage, and quaint animals--the dome, and, above
all, the campanile--light and airy as a dream, springing upward on open
arches where the sun burns hotly--the eye comes to understand what a
glorious Gothic monument it is.
The three portals are now open. From the lofty atrium raised on broad
marble steps, with painted ceiling and sculptured walls--at one end a
bubbling fountain falling into a marble basin, at the other an arched
gate-way leading into grass-grown cloisters--the vast nave is visible
from end to end. This nave is absolutely empty. Every thing tells of
expectation, of anticipation. The mighty Lombard pillars on either
side--supporting a triforium gallery of circular arches and slender
pillars of marble fretwork, delicate as lace--are wreathed and twined
with red taffetas bound with golden bands. The gallery of the triforium
itself is draped with arras and rich draperies. Each dainty column is
decked with flags and pennons. The aisles and transepts blaze with
gorgeous hangings. Overhead saints, prophets, and martyrs, standing
immovable in the tinted glories of the stained windows, fling broad
patches of purple, emerald, and yellow, upon the intaglio pavement.
Along the nave (a hedge, as it were, on either side) are hung curtains of
cloth of gold.
The high altar, inclosed by a balustrade of colored marble raised on
steps richly carpeted, glitters with gemmed chalices and crosses.
Behind, countless wax-lights illuminate the rich frescoes of the tribune.
The Chapel of the Holy Countenance (midway up the nave), inclosed
by a gilded net-work, is a dazzling mountain of light flung from a
thousand golden sconces. A black figure as large as life rests upon the
altar. It is stretched upon a cross. The eyes are white and glassy; the
thorn-crowned head leans on one side. The body is enveloped in a
damascened robe spangled with jewels. This robe descends to the feet,
which are cased in shoes of solid gold. The right foot rests on a
sacramental cup glittering with gems. On either side are angels, with
arms extended. One holds a massive sceptre, the other the silver keys of

the city of Lucca.
All waits. The bride, glorious in her garment of needle-work, waits.
The bridegroom waits. The sacramental banquet is spread; the guests
are bidden. All waits the moment when the multitude, already buzzing
without at the western entrance, shall spread themselves over the
mosaic floor, and throng each chapel, altar, gallery, and transept--when
anthems of praise shall peal from the double doors of the painted organ,
and holy rites give a mystic language to the sacred symbols around.
Meanwhile the procession flashes from street to street. Banners flutter
in the hot mid-day air, tall crucifixes and golden crosses reach to the
upper stories. In the pauses the low hum of the chanted canticles is
caught up here and there along the line--now the monks--then the
canons with a nasal twang--then the laity.
There are the judges, twelve in number, robed in black, scarlet, and
ermine, their broad crimson sashes sweeping the pavement. The
_gonfaloniere_--that ancient title of republican freedom still
remaining--walks behind, attired in antique robes. Next appear the
municipality--wealthy, oily-faced citizens, at this moment much
overcome by the heat. Following these are the Lucchese nobles,
walking two-and-two, in a precedence not prescribed by length of
pedigree, but of age. Next comes the prefect of the city; at his side the
general in command of the garrison of Lucca, escorted by a brilliant
staff. Each bears a tall lighted torch.
The law and the army are closely followed by the church. All are there,
two-and-two--from the youngest deacon to the oldest canon--in his robe
of purple silk edged with gold--wearing a white mitre. The church is
generally corpulent; these dignitaries are no exception.
Amid a cloud of incense walks the archbishop--a tall, stately man, in
the prime of life--under a canopy of crimson silk resting on gold staves,
borne over him by four canons habited in purple. He moves along, a
perfect mass of brocade, lace, and gold--literally aflame in the sunshine.
His mitred head is bent downward; his eyes are half closed; his lips
move.