In the city of Florence, not far from the Piazza del Granduca, there is a little cross street which I think is called Porta Rossa. In front of a sort of market in this street, where vegetables are sold, stands an artificial but beautifully fashioned metal pig. A fountain of fresh clear water gushes out of the animal's mouth. Age has turned it dark green; only its snout shines as if it had been polished, and so it has by the many hundreds of children and poor people who take hold of it with their hands when they put their mouths to its mouth to drink the water. It is an interesting picture to see the perfectly formed animal embraced by a handsome, half-naked boy putting his young lips to its snout.
Everyone who goes to Florence surely finds the place; you only have to ask the first beggar you see about the metal pig, and he will find it for you.
Late one winter evening the mountains were covered with snow, but it was moonlight, and in Italy the moon gives as bright a light as on a dark winter's day in the north. Yes, it is even brighter, for the clear air seems to shine and to lift us above the earth, while in the north the cold, gray leaden roof presses us to the ground, the same cold, wet ground which one day will press on our coffins.
In the Duke's palace garden, a little ragged boy had been sitting all day under the stone pines, where thousands of roses bloom in the winter, a boy who might have stood for a picture of Italy, so pretty, so laughing, and yet so suffering. Although hungry and thirsty, he got a penny from no one, and when it grew dark and time to close the gardens, the porter drove him away. For a long time he stood dreaming on the bridge over the River Arno, looking at the reflections of the glittering stars in the water beneath the stately marble bridge. Then he made his way to the metal pig, knelt before it, threw his arms around its neck, put his little mouth to its shining snout, and drank great draughts of fresh water. Near by lay a few salad leaves and a couple of chestnuts, and these formed his supper. There was no living soul in the street; he was all alone; he climed on to the metal pig's back, leaned forward so that his little curly head rested on the animal's head, and before he knew what was happening he had fallen fast asleep.
It was midnight. The metal pig moved. The boy heard it say quite plainly, "Hold fast, little boy, for now I'm going to run off!" And away it ran with him!
It was a strange ride. First they reached the Piazza del Granduca, and the bronze horse on which the Duke's statue was mounted neighed loudly to them. The colored coats of arms on the old Town Hall glowed like transparent pictures, and Michelangelo's David hurled his sling; it was a curious form of life that moved about. The bronze groups of Perseus and the Rape of the Sabine Women were only too much alive; their death shriek resounded through the stately deserted Piazza. The metal pig stopped by the Uffizi Palace, under the arcade where the nobles assembled for the carnival celebration during Lent.
"Hold fast," said the animal. "Hold fast now, for I'm going up the stairs!"
The little fellow hadn't yet said a word; he was half frightened, half delighted. They entered a long gallery, which he knew well, for he had been there before. The walls were covered with pictures, and the statues and busts all stood in a light as bright as if it were day; but the most splendid sight of all was when the door to one of the adjoining rooms opened. Yes, the splendor here the little boy remembered, but tonight everything was especially magnificent.
Here stood the statue of a nude woman, as beautiful as only nature and the greatest marble sculptor could make her; she moved her lovely limbs, dolphins sprang to life at her feet, and immortality shone from her eyes. She is known to the world as the Venus de' Medici. Marble statues of superb men were grouped around her; one of them, the Grinder, was sharpening his sword; the next group was the Wrestling Gladiators. The sword was whetted, and the athletes wrestled for the goddess of beauty.
The boy was dazzled by the magnificence; the walls were radiant with color, and everything there had life and movement. The picture of Venus, the earthly Venus, impassioned and glowing life, as Titian saw her, shone in redoubled splendor. Near her were the portraits of two lovely women, reclining on soft cushions, with beautiful, unveiled limbs, heaving bosoms, and luxuriant locks falling over rounded shoulders, while their dark eyes betrayed passionate thoughts. But none of these pictures dared to step forth from their frames. The goddess of beauty herself, the Gladiators, and the Grinder remained on their pedestals, subdued by the halo around the Madonna, with the infants Jesus and St. John. The holy pictures were no longer just pictures; they were the saints themselves.
What brilliance and beauty as they passed from gallery to gallery! And the little boy saw everything, for the metal pig went step by step past all this glory and magnitude. Each sight crowded out the previous one; only one picture really took hold of his thoughts, and that was chiefly because of the happy children in it; once during the daytime the little boy had nodded to them.
Many probably pass this picture unnoticing, yet it contains the essence of poetry. It is Christ descending to Hell, but He is not surrounded by souls in torment; no, these are heathen. The painting is by the Florentine Agnolo Bronzino. The expression of the children's faces is most beautiful in their certainty that they are going to Heaven. Two little ones are already embracing each other; one stretches a hand out to a companion below, and points to himself as if to say, "I am going to Heaven!" All the older people stand around doubting, or hoping, or humbly bowing in prayer to the Lord Jesus.