DOI chapter:
Chapter IX: Amalfi
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.59000#0367
Amalfi
and. we know how the Renaissance, which quaffed so
deeply from the wells of the past, delighted in their
revival. But there is a kind of fountain produced in
the South which is indicative of the natural artistic
feeling of the people : a certain harmonious touch
between the hand of the worker and Nature, which
makes the polished cups and basins seem as if they had
grown of themselves beneath the running streams of
water. As if the people had understood that
“. . . la source d’une eau saillante d’un rocher
Est plus douce au passant pour sa soif estancher
(Quand sans art elle coule en sa veine rustique)
Que n’est une fontaine en marbre magnifique,
Par contraincte sortant d’un grand tuyau dore
Au milieu de la cour d’un palais honore.” 1
Every village of the South is marked by a more
elaborate fountain, which stands as the heart of the life
and ways of the people, and round it a ceaseless stream
of natives passes from morn till night. All the washing
and all the drinking seems done here ; all that strange wild
talk which is as mere gibberish to the stranger, so cease-
less is it and so careless of the hours that pass—all stirs
round the marble heart of this empty shell of the past.
We watch the burning dark faces bending over it, and
the water splashing up and over them, and overflowing
till it trickles far along over the stones to where a
fruit-stall juts from a corner with a blaze of oranges
and tomatoes. How many are the pictures that arrest
the eye on every side ! Would that they could remain
1 Ronsard.
171
and. we know how the Renaissance, which quaffed so
deeply from the wells of the past, delighted in their
revival. But there is a kind of fountain produced in
the South which is indicative of the natural artistic
feeling of the people : a certain harmonious touch
between the hand of the worker and Nature, which
makes the polished cups and basins seem as if they had
grown of themselves beneath the running streams of
water. As if the people had understood that
“. . . la source d’une eau saillante d’un rocher
Est plus douce au passant pour sa soif estancher
(Quand sans art elle coule en sa veine rustique)
Que n’est une fontaine en marbre magnifique,
Par contraincte sortant d’un grand tuyau dore
Au milieu de la cour d’un palais honore.” 1
Every village of the South is marked by a more
elaborate fountain, which stands as the heart of the life
and ways of the people, and round it a ceaseless stream
of natives passes from morn till night. All the washing
and all the drinking seems done here ; all that strange wild
talk which is as mere gibberish to the stranger, so cease-
less is it and so careless of the hours that pass—all stirs
round the marble heart of this empty shell of the past.
We watch the burning dark faces bending over it, and
the water splashing up and over them, and overflowing
till it trickles far along over the stones to where a
fruit-stall juts from a corner with a blaze of oranges
and tomatoes. How many are the pictures that arrest
the eye on every side ! Would that they could remain
1 Ronsard.
171