If undeveloped communications were to become enough for me at
those retrospective moments, I might have felt myself supplied to
my taste, let me go on to say, at the hour of my making, with
great resolution, an attempt on high-seated and quite grandly
out-of-the-way Volterra: a reminiscence associated with quite a
different year and, I should perhaps sooner have bethought
myself, with my fond experience of Pisa--inasmuch as it was
during a pause under that bland and motionless wing that I seem
to have had to organise in the darkness of a summer dawn my
approach to the old Etruscan stronghold. The railway then
existed, but I rose in the dim small hours to take my train;
moreover, so far as that might too much savour of an incongruous
facility, the fault was in due course quite adequately repaired
by an apparent repudiation of any awareness of such false notes
on the part of the town. I may not invite the reader to penetrate
with me by so much as a step the boundless backward reach of
history to which the more massive of the Etruscan gates of
Volterra, the Porta all' Arco, forms the solidest of thresholds;
since I perforce take no step myself, and am even exceptionally
condemned here to impressionism unashamed. My errand was to spend
a Sunday with an Italian friend, a native in fact of the place,
master of a house there in which he offered me hospitality; who,
also arriving from Florence the night before, had obligingly come
on with me from Pisa, and whose consciousness of a due urbanity,
already rather overstrained, and still well before noon, by the
accumulation of our matutinal vicissitudes and other grounds for
patience, met all ruefully at the station the supreme shock of an
apparently great desolate world of volcanic hills, of blank,
though "engineered," undulations, as the emergence of a road
testified, unmitigated by the smallest sign of a wheeled vehicle.
The station, in other words, looked out at that time (and I
daresay the case hasn't strikingly altered) on a mere bare huge
hill-country, by some remote mighty shoulder of which the goal of
our pilgrimage, so questionably "served" by the railway, was
hidden from view. Served as well by a belated omnibus, a four-in-
hand of lame and lamentable quality, the place, I hasten to add,
eventually put forth some show of being; after a complete
practical recognition of which, let me at once further mention,
all the other, the positive and sublime, connections of Volterra
established themselves for me without my lifting a finger.
The small shrunken, but still lordly prehistoric city is perched, when once you have rather painfully zigzagged to within sight of it, very much as an eagle's eyrie, oversweeping the land and the sea; and to that type of position, the ideal of the airy peak of vantage, with all accessories and minor features a drop, a slide and a giddiness, its individual items and elements strike you at first as instinctively conforming. This impression was doubtless after a little modified for me; there were levels, there were small stony practicable streets, there were walks and strolls, outside the gates and roundabout the cyclopean wall, to the far end of downward-tending protrusions and promontories, natural buttresses and pleasant terrene headlands, friendly suburban spots (one would call them if the word had less detestable references) where games of bowls and overtrellised wine-tables could put in their note; in spite of which however my friend's little house of hospitality, clean and charming and oh, so immemorially Tuscan, was as perpendicular and ladder-like as so compact a residence could be; it kept up for me beautifully--as regards posture and air, though humanly and socially it rather cooed like a dovecote--the illusion of the vertiginously "balanced" eagle's nest. The air, in truth, all the rest of that splendid day, must have been the key to the promptly-produced intensity of one's relation to every aspect of the charming episode; the light, cool, keen air of those delightful high places, in Italy, that tonically correct the ardours of July, and which at our actual altitude could but affect me as the very breath of the grand local legend. I might have "had" the little house, our particular eagle's nest, for the summer, and even on such touching terms; and I well remember the force of the temptation to take it, if only other complications had permitted; to spend the series of weeks with that admirable interesting freshness in my lungs: interesting, I especially note, as the strong appropriate medium in which a continuity with the irrecoverable but still effective past had been so robustly preserved. I couldn't yield, alas, to the conceived felicity, which had half-a-dozen appealing aspects; I could only, while thus feeling how the atmospheric medium itself made for a positively initiative exhilaration, enjoy my illusion till the morrow. The exhilaration therefore supplies to memory the whole light in which, for the too brief time, I went about "seeing" Volterra; so that my glance at the seated splendour reduces itself, as I have said, to the merest impressionism; nothing more was to be looked for, on the stretched surface of consciousness, from one breezy wash of the brush. I find there the clean strong image simplified to the three or four unforgettable particulars of the vast rake of the view; with the Maremma, of evil fame, more or less immediately below, but with those islands of the sea, Corsica and Elba, the names of which are sharply associational beyond any others, dressing the far horizon in the grand manner, and the Ligurian coast-line melting northward into beauty and history galore; with colossal uncemented blocks of Etruscan gates and walls plunging you--and by their very interest--into a sweet surrender of any privilege of appreciation more crushing than your general synthetic stare; and with the rich and perfectly arranged museum, an unsurpassed exhibition of monumental treasure from Etruscan tombs, funereal urns mainly, reliquaries of an infinite power to move and charm us still, contributing to this same so designed, but somehow at the same time so inspired, collapse of the historic imagination under too heavy a pressure, or abeyance of "private judgment" in too unequal a relation.