The Golden Fleece: Essays Read online

  The aspects of love that one could discuss are endless. But certainly, as the old songs say, love is the sweetest thing, and it makes the world go round.

  [1984]

  Ravenna: City of Mosaics

  Ravenna is a pleasant northern Italian town practically on the Adriatic coast. The city and its surroundings are flat, which makes for easy walking and accounts for the city’s bicycle-cult. Bicycles are parked thickly, leaving the streets comparatively free of standing cars. I live in Tuscany and Rome and am used to the southern and central Italian cities which teem with expansive human life and self-conscious beauty. But Ravenna gives a clean, rational, hard-working impression. There are arcades and shopping-malls. Its modern industries of oil-refining and fertiliser production are outside the city, along the coast. Since Ravenna was bombarded during World War II, most of the buildings are modern or reconstructed, but fortunately still not tall enough to dwarf such landmarks of antiquity, as a leaning tower (preserved under the tutelage of the local Lions Club), the churches, baptisteries, the Cathedral.

  In Ravenna is the tomb of the exiled Dante Alighieri who finished the Divina Commedia there shortly before his death in 1321. The tomb is a quaint edifice of the eighteenth century, altogether inadequate to the grandeur of its purpose. Byron lodged in Ravenna during his courtship of the Countess Teresa Guiccioli and was involved in the city’s violent politics; the site of his lodgings is commemorated by a plaque.

  But Ravenna is not essentially a city of exteriors. Its truly great marvels are the mosaics on the interior walls of its early medieval (sixth-to seventh-century) monuments – what Byron called ‘…her pyramid of precious stones… / Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues / Of gem and marble…’ (Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage).

  Ravenna was from the earliest times on the Eastern trade route. The important period of its history began in the fifth century. Rome was on the wane, her troops were evacuating Britain and Gaul to defend Italy. Ravenna, now a few miles inland, was then on the sea coast, a famous Roman port that had been built by the Emperor Augustus. It was always busy with exotic traffic. One can imagine the poet John Masefield’s ‘Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir’ coming into port with its ‘cargo of ivory / And apes and peacocks / Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine’.

  The art of mosaic mural designs and representations constructed of small coloured stones and glass, often on gold foundations and imbedded with mother of pearl, had already appeared in Italy by the end of the Roman Empire. By the classic process of invasions, battles, murders and usurpations, Ravenna fell within the power of the Visigothic emperor, Theodoric, largely to whom and to whose Byzantine successor we owe the marvels of cultural heritage preserved in Ravenna to-day. No photography can really convey the effect of these mosaics. The nature of mosaics is based on prismatic reflections. Picture postcards and photographs are very good for depicting the close-up details, but the total impression can only be got by being there, inside those buildings, and walking around. From every point of contemplation a new aspect emerges from each picture.

  Mosaics are more durable than other pictorial arts; they are less likely to be badly restored or faked. The work of restoration and preservation of Ravenna’s mosaic treasures in recent times has been particularly fine and diligent, involving centimetre by centimetre attention and minute toothpick treatment of the original cementing.

  It helps to know that in those early days, and to those artists and their patrons, theology was politics, and that many of these mosaic murals were inspired by the Arians, a heretical, powerful and, in many ways, noble branch of Christianity. The Arians acknowledged the human supremacy of Christ but denied his Godhead. It is also useful to know that the monuments belong to three periods: the imperial, fifth century, influenced by the adventurous Catholic Roman Galla Placidia and her brother Honorius; the period of the Arian Theodoric, in the fifth and sixth centuries; and the Catholic Byzantine period dominated by the Emperor Justinian and his wife, Theodora, who was attached to the Monophysite heresy which held that in Christ there existed the divine nature alone.

  There is always a connection between an art form and the thought process of the people to whom it spoke. Just as Renaissance art, with its defiant portraiture, its flowing robes and hair, its fluid religious figurations, addressed itself to a new humanistic spirit, bursting with adventure and bold concepts of good and evil, so do the mosaics of the early Middle Ages, still and tranquil, gleaming in their own spiritual light, reflect the encroaching oriental sensibility.

  To know something of the history of these records of faith, triumph and civilisation, adds to their appreciation. But if the nuances of Western history between the late fifth and seventh centuries are not your vital passion, you can, with equal and marvellous profit, simply plunge into the glory of colour and light that liven the walls and domed ceilings of Ravenna’s monuments, as did Henry James, lamenting ‘the thinness of [his] saturation with Gibbon and the other sources of legend’.

  The sites of interest fall within a rectangle and are of easy access. Most of the interiors are lit by means of a coin machine, so it is advisable to take a supply of small coins.* Any itinerary is equally dramatic in its effect, but it is perhaps more logical to start with one of the oldest examples. This is the small but sumptuous Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, built in the form of a cross, an oratory bejewelled with symbols. A semi-circular cupola represents a deep blue, gold-starred sky surrounded by the Lion of St Mark, the Bull of St Luke, the Eagle of St John and the Angel of St Matthew. Each alcove is decorated with lively animal symbols mingled with more stylised abstract designs. The predominant colour is greenish blue. Above the entrance shines a picture of the Good Shepherd and six mystic yet realistic sheep. Here, too, are the famous drinking doves, symbols of souls quenching their thirst for peace, perched on the edge of their vase.

  In all the mosaics of Ravenna, bird, flower and animal symbols abound. One can only marvel at the patience of the artists who executed them, grading the stones from dark to light with the fidelity of mural painting and the added dimension produced by the cut of each tiny stone.

  Not far from this mausoleum is the Basilica and Presbytery of San Vitale, one of Ravenna’s patron saints. Its exterior is a geometrical arrangement of octagons, rectangles and curves unique in Europe, combining the genius of Rome and Byzantium. The interior is vast and harmonious. The dazzling mosaics here are both Roman and Byzantine, clearly distinguishable in the cursive scenes in the choir and the more stylised and rigid pictures in the apse. Here again colourful wild life abounds among biblical narrative episodes. And the stern, patrician, Empress Theodora attended by her ladies faces her husband, the Emperor Justinian, flanked by his men. Theodora, reputed to have begun her career as a dancer and prostitute, had a formidable influence over her husband, his army and politics. She instituted strict laws against the prevalent traffic in young women, and for the protection of divorced women. She was violently ruthless with rebels. But here, she is dignified and serene, and, as always with oriental mosaics, I have the impression of deep silence.

  The Arian Baptistery belongs to the end of the fifth century. In 561 it was reconsecrated to Catholic use. The octagonal chapel stands near the Church of Spirito Santo, formerly an Arian cathedral. The picture in the centre of the domed ceiling shows Christ being baptised, his nude body half submerged in transparent water. This miracle of mosaic portraiture conveys an unusual youth-Christ, patient, fully human and somewhat astonished.

  The Neone Baptistery near the Cathedral (early fifth century) has a similar medallion-type depiction of Christ’s baptism, with an older Jesus, among water motifs, and, as in the Arian baptistery, the central medallion is surrounded by a spoke-like design formed by the Twelve Apostles. Looking up, one receives the impression of a vividly patterned, iridescent bowl. The baptismal font, the adult immersion, is octagonal, faced with marble and porphyry and inset with a pulpit of Greek marble. This is a wonderful point from which to look up
and around the richly decorated interior, whirling as it seems to do, both towards and away from the gazer. The Cathedral itself holds many features of sculptural interest, especially a marble pulpit, decorated with carved lambs, fish, peacocks, deer, doves and ducks – an ecological sermon in itself. Whatever the symbolic import of the animal motifs, plainly those Christians valued their wildlife and household beasts.

  Another jewel-box is to be found in a small oratory inside the Archbishop’s Palace, adjacent to the Cathedral. This is remarkable for its portraiture. Particularly fascinating is a representation of Christ as a soldier in a short kilt and cloak.

  The famous Basilica of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo was built by the Arian Theodoric and later reconsecrated to the Catholic church. Its immediate effect is of total majestic harmony. The architecture and the mural decorations, although not all of the same period, blend together in one conception. On each side of the long central nave three levels of friezes surmount the pillars. The lowest level bears, on one side, a formal procession of Martyrs, and on the other, a corresponding procession of stately Virgins, the latter culminating in a breakthrough of eager movement as the Three Kings, almost running, approach an enthroned Madonna.

  In this church the transition between the heresy of the Arians and the restored Catholic religion can be clearly seen. Near the door is a mosaic picture of the Palace of Theodoric, whose Arian saints were originally shown there. These heretics were later replaced, but not by orthodox saints: their places were tactfully ‘covered’ by a series of quaint mosaic curtains. Sant’ Apollinare Nuovo is such a pleasing place, such an immaculately detailed, wide, serene, statement of faith and art, one should spend as long as possible walking around. It deserves at least two visits.

  The Basilica of Sant’ Apollinare in Classe (Classe is a fraction of Ravenna, now about four miles from the present city) owes its survival from Allied shelling to the intervention of ‘Popski’ (Vladimir Peniakoff), the celebrated World War II commander. His ‘private army’ of twenty-two men was an independent demolition squad. In his book Popski’s Private Army he tells how he prevailed on his gunners to postpone an attack on Sant’ Apollinare in Classe for twenty-four hours while he sent a party to visit the bell-tower where Germans were believed to be posted. The rumour proved untrue and the church was saved. He is commemorated by a grateful plaque in the cloister. This monument now enjoys the support of the Rotary Club. Sant’ Apollinare in Classe has an apse of breathtaking loveliness. The mosaic picture on the arched ceiling portrays a glorious jewel-encrusted cross symbolising Christ in a still, sublime, pastoral surrounding. Marble columns of great dignity line the wide central nave. Groupings of columns are one of the most effective features of the church.

  All this being said, there is still everything left unsaid about the treasures of Ravenna. In the National Museum are fine collections of carved marbles dating from early Roman times, ancient woven materials, ivories, ceramics. The Church of Saint John the Evangelist was founded by Galla Placidia as a votive offering for her survival from a storm at sea during her return to Ravenna from Constantinople in the year 424. This is the oldest church in Ravenna and was seriously war-damaged. It has a wall display of salvaged mosaic pavements, the most attractive of which are naïf representations of scenes from the thirteenth-century Fourth Crusade. The Church of St Francis is striking for its crypt constantly under water, but observable from the upper church; it is partly paved with its original fifth-century abstract mosaics. Outside Ravenna, along the Adriatic coast, are the pine woods beloved of Dante in his latter days, and of Boccaccio and of Byron. These woods are not, by their nature, very dense. But, menaced by the modern environment, they are thinning out.

  [1987]

  * No longer necessary.

  The Art of Verse

  Verse is often considered an inferior form of poetry. Not so. It is a literary form by itself, a craft verging on art. At its best the practice of verse emerges as poetry. We talk of the nonsense verses of Edward Lear and of Lewis Carroll although they do draw strength from the poetic imagination.

  Poets who practise ‘free verse’ are seldom aware of what they are freed from: the study of verse is a sadly forgotten one. In my view poets cannot work freely unless they are fully experienced in the makings of verse. There are verse forms to be considered, lengths of lines, rhymes internal and external; rhythms regular and sprung, the use of alliterations; in short, the raw materials which are the musical basics of poetry.

  I know of no great poet who has not been fully acquainted with the study of verse; and I am convinced that any poet or indeed anyone who writes prose, would benefit from a knowledge of what verse is, and from the actual practice of villanelles, triolets, rondeaux, Shakespearean sonnets, Petrarchan sonnets, kyrielles, chants royal, to mention some. Each has a distinct function in the conveyance of meaning and artistic pleasure. The various forms of metre were themselves the subject of a verse written by the nineteenth-century poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge:

  Trochee trips from long to short;

  From long to long in solemn sort,

  Slow Spondee stalks, strong foot! yet ill able

  Ever to come up with Dactyl trisyllable.

  Iambics march from short to long:

  With a leap and a bound the swift Anapaests throng –

  One syllable long, with one short at each side,

  Amphibrachys hasten with a stately stride:-

  First and last being long; middle short, Amphimacer

  Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred racer.

  From this example can flow an infinity of inspired irregularities.

  There is far more to creative writing than just to sit down to write and simply vent your feelings. Shakespeare, our Mozart of literature, knew well the emotive and aesthetic power of metrical variation:

  Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

  As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

  Are melted into the air, into thin air;

  And how well suited to the conversational form were the measured Alexandrine metres of the nineteenth-century poet Arthur Hugh Clough in his narrative poem, ‘Amours de Voyage’:

  Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British female?

  Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till, little by little,

  All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous spirit.

  Rhyme is no longer popular, except for comic verse, although some poets have told me that the search for an adequate rhyme-ending has sometimes been the fruitful source of a new image and even meaning. It is a mnemonic, and in this way a rhymed poem is easier to remember. It can also hypnotise. W.H. Auden’s rhymed poetry is wonderfully thought-inspiring. In the hands of Dylan Thomas a rhyming word is always in the right place. As a mere excuse for the line ending, though, rhyme is indeed boring. No technique can really make a poet.

  In my youth I practised and studied all verse-forms. I believe I owe to this activity a sense of how to manipulate language and organise sentences and paragraphs (the stanzas of prose) to procure an effect. I have always claimed that I write as a poet, that my novels come under the category of poetics rather than fiction. If this is even partly so, I owe it to my early apprenticeship with verse forms.

  [1999]

  Ruskin and Read

  ‘I am, and my father was before me, a violent Tory of the old school,’ Ruskin said of himself. In marked contrast with this nineteenth-century arbiter of taste, Herbert Read is a pacifist and an anarchist, particularly sympathetic to new ideas.

  Yet to take another statement of Ruskin’s: ‘If we were to be asked abruptly, and required to answer briefly, what qualities chiefly distinguish great artists from feeble artists, we should answer, I suppose, first, their sensibility and tenderness; secondly, their imagination; and thirdly, their industry’ – to take this statement and apply to Herbert Read’s writings for a comment, we should find the two philosophers of art in substantial agreement, with the exception that
Read would hardly be likely to use the word ‘tenderness’ in this context.

  And there lies the difference between the two men and between two epochs. Ruskin was slightly soft in the middle; Read is a little too hard. Ruskin’s influence spread out to inspire the whole literate community; Read’s influence makes no such missionary move; he addresses the sensibility of an artistic elite; and it is his regret that the deeper ranges of aesthetic sensibility are lost to the majority of people.

  Herbert Read’s selection of essays, chosen to represent a ‘philosophy’ of art, are of special relevance to this question, which is closely bound up with that of education in art. Teachers will be especially impressed by the essay ‘The Fate of Modern Painting’; and indeed, the whole book shows Read as a fundamental thinker who understands how far artistic expression has been separated from normal life. Peter Quennell’s selection from John Ruskin’s writings is a useful guide to the strongest current in nineteenth-century aesthetics.

  [1952]

  Robert Burns