Se non siete mai stati a Firenze prima, assicuratevi di farlo e quando ci si trova lì, non dimenticate di fare una visita a un museo che forse non conosce la gloria o questa fama della Galleria degli Uffizi, ma è un abbagliante gioiello nel cuore della Firenze medievale, una delle costruzioni più suggestive della città la quale ospita il Museo Casa di Dante.
Lo scopo fondamentale della gestione del Museo Casa di Dante è quello di diffondere la conoscenza della vita e delle opere di Dante ad un pubblico vasto ed eterogeneo. Il Museo si articola in tre piani, ognuno dei quali affronta una tematica diversa che illustra, attraverso un percorso espositivo, la vita privata del Sommo Poeta, la sua attività politica, il suo esilio, fornendo inoltre informazioni sulla Firenze medievale nella quale il poeta visse.
Al primo piano, una sala è dedicata all’Arte dei Medici e Speziali. Arte della quale fece parte il poeta stesso, sono presenti, in apposite bacheche: piante, fiori, minerali e strumenti, come l’alambicco, utilizzati per creare pozioni e unguenti che venivano somministrati ai pazienti come prima forma di cura medievale. Dopo viene affrontato il tema della politica, le divisioni interne della città di Firenze e la guerra tra le fazioni concorrenti. Questo piano contiene anche informazioni su l’economia fiorentina e un bellissimo diorama dei due eserciti schierati per la Battaglia di Campaldino, combattuta tra i Ghibellini aretini ed i Guelfi fiorentini, una battaglia importantíssima perché vi partecipò Dante stesso!
Il secondo piano affronta il tema dell’esilio del poeta e la sua camera da letto· una riproduzione fedele di una camera da letto nobile, anch’essa degna di particolare attenzione per la sua bellezza e per la presenza intorno al letto dei cosiddetti “cassoni”, importante strumento d’arredo nelle case nobiliari. Inoltre c’è riprodotto un video che illustra la Divina Commedia attraverso le opere di Gustave Doré, famoso artista francese che ha riportato in vita con delle superbe illustrazioni il capolavoro dantesco.
Al terzo piano,— che è il mio preferito— situato nella loggia della casa- torre è fonte di grande attrattiva proprio per la bellezza e la complessità della Divina Comedia. Contiene le edizioni originali di grande pregio, rarità e anche alcune copie dell’ opera come questa dal Codice Trivulziano del 1337 e il più piccolo libro della Divina Commedia “Dante leggibile a occhio nudo” del 1899.
Dunque, condividiamo poche delle fotografie che ho scattato dall’interno del museo. Ho molti di più, ma si dovrebbe vederlo voi stessi, altrimenti non conta! *facendolocchiolino* E per favore, non perdete l’occasione di visitare la casa di Dante, durante il vostro soggiorno a Firenze. Si tratta di una esperienza unica.
If you have never been to Florence before, make sure you do and when you find yourself there, do not forget to pay a visit to a museum that may not have the glory or that fame of the Uffizi Gallery, but it’s a dazzling jewel in the heart of medieval Florence. It’s one of the most evocative buildings in the city, it’s the Museum of Dante’s House.
The basic aim of the management of the Museum of Dante’s House is to spread knowledge of Dante’s life and works to the broader general public. The museum itself is set up on three floors, each of which treats a different theme, illustrating through panels and exhibits Dante’s private life, his political activity, and exile, while furnishing also information about medieval Florence in the time when Dante was alive.
On the first floor, one room is devoted to the Guild of Physicians and Apothecaries, to which Dante belonged, presents plants, minerals and instruments such as a still used to create the potions and ointments administered to patients as an early form of medical treatment in the Middle Ages. After that, other subjects are being addressed such as the city and its political life, the internal divisions of the city of Florence and the war between competing factions. This floor also stores information about the Florentine economy and a very fine diorama of two armies lined up against each other for the Battle of Campaldino, fought between the Ghibellines of Arezzo and the Guelphs of Florence· a battle of great importance in which Dante himself took part in!
On the second floor, the topic of Dante’s exile and the poet’s bedroom. A faithful replica of an aristocratic bedroom, especially worthy of attention not only for its beauty but also the presence around the bed of the storage chests, which were an important piece of furniture in the homes of the nobility. In addition, there is a video presenting the Divine Comedy as illustrated by Gustave Doré, an famous French artist who brought Dante’s masterpiece to life with superb illustrations.
The third floor,— which is my favourite— situated on the porch of the tower house, presents a blowup of the Divine Comedy flanked by three color reproductions of the three canticles that make up the poem. The beauty and complexity of the original work the value and the rarity can take your breath away. It contains, as well, other copies of the Divine Comedy such as the one from the Trivulziano Codex of 1337 and the smallest edition of the Divine Comedy legible to the human eye, made in 1899.
Let’s share a few pictures I took from the inside of the museum. I have a lot more, but you have to see for yourselves, otherwise it does not count! *wink* And please, do not miss the chance to visit Dante’s House, during your sojourn in Florence. It’s a unique experience.
Αν δεν έxετε πάει ποτέ στη Φλωϱεντία, фϱοντίστε να το ϰάνετε ϰι όταν ϐϱεϑείτε εϰεί, μην ƶεxάσετε να επισϰεфτείτε ένα μουσείο το οποίο ίσως να μην ɣνωϱίzει τη δόƶα ή/ ϰαι τη фήμη εϰείνη της Πιναϰοϑήϰης Ουфίτσι, αλλά είναι ένα εϰϑαμϐωτιϰό ϰόσμημα στην ϰαϱδιά της μεσαιωνιϰής πόλης. Είναι ένα απ’ τα πιο υποϐλητιϰά ϰτίϱια της Φλωϱεντίας, είναι το μουσείο- σπίτι του ποιητή Δάντη Αλιɣϰιέϱι. Ο ϐασιϰός στόxος της διοίϰησης του μουσείου αυτού είναι να ɣίνουν ɣνωστά η zωή ϰαι τα έϱɣα του ποιητή στο ευϱύτεϱο ϰοινό. Το ίδιο το μουσείο απλώνεται σε τϱεις οϱόфους, ϰαϑένας από τους οποίους ασxολείται μ’ ένα διαфοϱετιϰό ϑέμα, που απειϰονίzει μέσα από πίναϰες ϰαι εϰϑέματα την ιδιωτιϰή zωή του Δάντη, την πολιτιϰή του δϱαστηϱιότητα, ϰαι την εƶοϱία, ενώ παϱουσιάzει, επίσης, πληϱοфοϱίες σxετιϰά με τη μεσαιωνιϰή Φλωϱεντία στα xϱόνια του ϰαλλιτέxνη.
Στον πϱώτο όϱοфο, ένα δωμάτιο είναι αфιεϱωμένο στη συντεxνία των Μεδίϰων, στην οποία ανήϰε ο Δάντης, ϰαι παϱουσιάzει фυτά, οϱυϰτά ϰαι εϱɣαλεία, που xϱησιμοποιούνταν εϰείνη την εποxή πϱοϰειμένου να ϰατασϰευαστούν τα фίλτϱα ϰι οι αλοιфές που xοϱηɣούσαν σε ασϑενείς ως μια πϱώιμη μοϱфή της ιατϱιϰής πεϱίϑαλψης στον Μεσαίωνα. Άλλα ϑέματα που αναϰύπτουν είναι η Φλωϱεντία ϰαι η πολιτιϰή zωή της, οι εσωτεϱιϰές διαιϱέσεις της πόλης ϰαι ο πόλεμος μεταƶύ αντίπαλων фατϱιών. Επιπλέον, αυτός ο όϱοфος συɣϰεντϱώνει πληϱοфοϱίες σxετιϰά με την οιϰονομία της Φλωϱεντίας ϰαι το πολύ λεπτοδουλεμένο διόϱαμα όπου δύο στϱατοί παϱατάσσονται ενάντια ο ένας στον άλλο στη διάϱϰεια της μάxης του Καλμπαλντίνο, οι Γουέλфοι, ϰυϱίως από τη Φλωϱεντία, ϰαι οι Γιϐϐελίνοι, ϰυϱίως απ’ το Αϱέτσο, μια μάxη μεɣάλης σημασίας στην οποία συμμετείxε ϰαι ο ίδιος ο Δάντης!
Στον δεύτεϱο όϱοфο, το ϑέμα της εƶοϱίας του Δάντη ϰαι το υπνοδωμάτιο στο οποίο έμενε ο ποιητής. Ένα πιστό αντίɣϱαфο μιας αϱιστοϰϱατιϰής ϰάμαϱας, ιδιαίτεϱα άƶια πϱοσοxής, όxι μόνο ɣια την ομοϱфιά της, αλλά ϰαι ɣια τα αντιϰείμενα της επίπλωσης, τα οποία αποτελούσαν σημαντιϰό ϰομμάτι στα σπίτια των ευɣενών. Επιπλέον, υπάϱxει ένα ϐίντεο που παϱουσιάzει τη Θεία Κωμωδία, όπως τη фαντάστηϰε ο Γϰυστάϐ Ντοϱέ, ένας διάσημος Γάλλος ϰαλλιτέxνης που έфεϱε το αϱιστούϱɣημα του Δάντη στη zωή μέσα από μια ϑαυμάσια ειϰονοɣϱάфηση.
Ο τϱίτος όϱοфος,— ο πιο αɣαπημένος μου— ϐϱίσϰεται στη ϐεϱάντα του σπιτιού- πύϱɣου, παϱουσιάzει μια μεɣέϑυνση της Θείας Κωμωδίας που πλαισιώνεται από τϱεις έɣxϱωμες αναπαϱαɣωɣές των τϱιών Ασμάτων που απαϱτίzουν το ποίημα. Η ομοϱфιά ϰαι η πολυπλοϰότητα του αϱxιϰού έϱɣου, η αƶία ϰαι η σπανιότητα μποϱεί να σας ϰόψει την ανάσα. Υπάϱxουν, επίσης, ϰαι διάфοϱα άλλα αντίɣϱαфα της Θείας Κωμωδίας όπως είναι η μιϰϱότεϱη έϰδοση της, ευανάɣνωστη στο ανϑϱώπινο μάτι, του 1899.
Ας μοιϱαστούμε, λοιπόν, λίɣες μόνο από τις фωτοɣϱαфίες που τϱάϐηƶα από το εσωτεϱιϰό του μουσείου. Μάλιστα, έxω πολύ πεϱισσότεϱες απ’αυτές, αλλά πϱέπει να δείτε μόνοι σας, αλλιώς δεν μετϱάει! *ματάϰιαπεταϱιστά* Θεϱμή παϱάϰληση, μην xάσετε την ευϰαιϱία να δείτε το σπίτι του ποιητή, ϰατά την επισϰέψή σας στη Φλωϱεντία. Είναι μοναδιϰή εμπειϱία.
♦ By Vladimir Nabokov [The New Yorker // FICTION, JUNE 9 & 16, 2008 ISSUE]
On the stairs Natasha ran into her neighbor from across the hall, Baron Wolfe. He was somewhat laboriously ascending the bare wooden steps, caressing the bannister with his hand and whistling softly through his teeth.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry, Natasha?”
“To the drugstore to get a prescription filled. The doctor was just here. Father is better.”
“Ah, that’s good news.”
She flitted past in her rustling raincoat, hatless.
Leaning over the bannister, Wolfe glanced back at her. For an instant he caught sight from overhead of the sleek, girlish part in her hair. Still whistling, he climbed to the top floor, threw his rain-soaked briefcase on the bed, then thoroughly and satisfyingly washed and dried his hands.
Then he knocked on old Khrenov’s door.
Khrenov lived in the room across the hall with his daughter, who slept on a couch, a couch with amazing springs that rolled and swelled like metal tussocks through the flabby plush. There was also a table, unpainted and covered with ink-spotted newspapers. Sick Khrenov, a shrivelled old man in a nightshirt that reached to his heels, creakily darted back into bed and pulled up the sheet just as Wolfe’s large shaved head poked through the door.
“Come in, glad to see you, come on in.”
The old man was breathing with difficulty, and the door of his night table remained half open.
“I hear you’ve almost totally recovered, Alexey Ivanych,” Baron Wolfe said, seating himself by the bed and slapping his knees.
Khrenov offered his yellow, sticky hand and shook his head.
“I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but I do know perfectly well that I’ll die tomorrow.”
He made a popping sound with his lips.
“Nonsense,” Wolfe merrily interrupted, and extracted from his hip pocket an enormous silver cigar case. “Mind if I smoke?”
He fiddled for a long time with his lighter, clicking its cogged screw. Khrenov half-closed his eyes. His eyelids were bluish, like a frog’s webbing. Graying bristles covered his protruding chin. Without opening his eyes, he said, “That’s how it’ll be. They killed my two sons and heaved me and Natasha out of our natal nest. Now we’re supposed to go and die in a strange city. How stupid, all things considered. . . .”
Wolfe started speaking loudly and distinctly. He spoke of how Khrenov still had a long time to live, thank goodness, and how everyone would be returning to Russia in the spring, together with the storks. And then he proceeded to recount an incident from his past.
“It was back when I was wandering around the Congo,” he was saying, and his large, somewhat corpulent figure swayed slightly. “Ah, the distant Congo, my dear Alexey Ivanych, such distant wilds—you know . . . Imagine a village in the woods, women with pendulous breasts, and the shimmer of water, black as karakul, amid the huts. There, under a gigantic tree—a kiroku—lay orange fruit like rubber balls, and at night there came from inside the trunk what seemed like the sound of the sea. I had a long chat with the local kinglet. Our translator was a Belgian engineer, another curious man. He swore, by the way, that, in 1895, he had seen an ichthyosaur in the swamps not far from Tanganyika. The kinglet was smeared with cobalt, adorned with rings, and blubbery, with a belly like jelly. Here’s what happened—”
Wolfe, relishing his story, smiled and stroked his pale-blue head.
“Natasha is back,” Khrenov quietly and firmly interjected, without raising his eyelids.
Instantly turning pink, Wolfe looked around. A moment later, somewhere far off, the lock of the front door clinked, then steps rustled along the hall. Natasha entered quickly, with radiant eyes.
“How are you, Daddy?”
Wolfe got up and said, with feigned nonchalance, “Your father is perfectly well, and I have no idea why he’s in bed… I’m going to tell him about a certain African sorcerer.”
Natasha smiled at her father and began unwrapping the medicine.
“It’s raining,” she said softly. “The weather is terrible.”
As usually happens when the weather is mentioned, the others looked out the window. That made a bluish-gray vein on Khrenov’s neck contract. Then he threw his head back on the pillow again. With a pout, Natasha counted the drops, and her eyelashes kept time. Her sleek dark hair was beaded with rain, and under her eyes there were adorable blue shadows.
Back in his room, Wolfe paced for a long time, with a flustered and happy smile, dropping heavily now into an armchair, now onto the edge of the bed. Then, for some reason, he opened a window and peered into the dark, gurgling courtyard below. At last he shrugged one shoulder spasmodically, put on his green hat, and went out.
Old Khrenov, who was sitting slumped on the couch while Natasha straightened his bed for the night, observed indifferently, in a low voice, “Wolfe has gone out to dinner.”
Then he sighed and pulled the blanket more tightly around him.
“Ready,” Natasha said. “Climb back in, Daddy.”
All around there was the wet evening city, the black torrents of the streets, the mobile, shiny cupolas of umbrellas, the blaze of shopwindows trickling down onto the asphalt. Along with the rain the night began to flow, filling the depths of the courtyards, flickering in the eyes of the thin-legged prostitutes, who slowly strolled to and fro at the crowded intersections. And, somewhere above, the circular lights of an advertisement flashed intermittently like a spinning illuminated wheel.
Toward nightfall, Khrenov’s temperature had risen. The thermometer was warm, alive— the column of mercury climbed high on the little red ladder. For a long time he muttered unintelligibly, kept biting his lips and gently shaking his head. Then he fell asleep. Natasha undressed by a candle’s wan flame, and saw her reflection in the murky glass of the window— her pale, thin neck, the dark braid that had fallen across her clavicle. She stood like that, in motionless languor, and suddenly it seemed to her that the room, together with the couch, the table littered with cigarette stubs, the bed on which, with open mouth, a sharp-nosed, sweaty old man slept restlessly— all this started to move, and was now floating, like the deck of a ship, into the black night. She sighed, ran a hand across her warm bare shoulder, and, transported partly by dizziness, lowered herself onto the couch. Then, with a vague smile, she began rolling down and pulling off her old, oft-mended stockings. Once again the room started floating, and she felt as if someone were blowing hot air onto the back of her head. She opened her eyes wide— dark, elongated eyes, whose whites had a bluish sheen. An autumn fly began to circle the candle and, like a buzzing black pea, collided with the wall. Natasha slowly crawled under the blanket and stretched, sensing, like a bystander, the warmth of her own body, her long thighs, and her bare arms thrown back behind her head. She felt too lazy to douse the candle, to shoo away the silken formication that was making her involuntarily compress her knees and shut her eyes. Khrenov gave a deep groan and raised one arm in his sleep. The arm fell back as if it were dead. Natasha lifted herself slightly and blew toward the candle. Multicolored circles started to swim before her eyes.
I feel so wonderful, she thought, laughing into her pillow. She was now lying curled up, and seemed to herself to be incredibly small, and all the thoughts in her head were like warm sparks that were gently scattering and sliding. She was just falling asleep when her torpor was shattered by a deep, frenzied cry.
“Daddy, what’s the matter?”
She fumbled on the table and lit the candle.
Khrenov was sitting up in bed, breathing furiously, his fingers clutching the collar of his shirt. A few minutes earlier, he had awakened and was frozen with horror, having mistaken the luminous dial of the watch lying on a chair nearby for the muzzle of a rifle motionlessly aiming at him. He had awaited the gunshot, not daring to stir, then, losing control, started screaming. Now he looked at his daughter, blinking and smiling a tremulous smile.
“Daddy, calm down, it’s nothing…”
Her naked feet softly shuffling on the floor, she straightened his pillows and touched his brow, which was sticky and cold with sweat. With a deep sigh, and still shaken by spasms, he turned toward the wall and muttered, “All of them, all… and me, too. It’s a nightmare… No, you mustn’t.”
He fell asleep as if falling into an abyss.
Natasha lay down again. The couch had become even bumpier, the springs pressed now into her side, now into her shoulder blades, but at last she got comfortable and floated back into the interrupted, incredibly warm dream that she still sensed but no longer remembered. Then, at dawn, she awoke again. Her father was calling to her.
“Natasha, I don’t feel well. Give me some water.”
Slightly unsteady, her somnolence permeated by the light-blue dawn, she moved toward the washbasin, making the pitcher clink. Khrenov drank avidly and deeply. He said, “It will be awful if I never return.”
“Go to sleep, Daddy. Try to get some more sleep.”
Natasha threw on her flannel robe and sat down at the foot of her father’s bed. He repeated the words “This is awful” several times, then gave a frightened smile.
“Natasha, I keep imagining that I am walking through our village. Remember the place by the river, near the sawmill? And it’s hard to walk. You know—all the sawdust. Sawdust and sand. My feet sink in. It tickles. One time, when we travelled abroad…” He frowned, struggling to follow the course of his own stumbling thoughts.
Natasha recalled with extraordinary clarity how he had looked then, recalled his fair little beard, his gray suède gloves, his checkered travelling cap that resembled a rubber pouch for a sponge— and suddenly felt that she was about to cry.
“Yes. So that’s that,” Khrenov drawled indifferently, peering into the dawn mist.
“Sleep some more, Daddy. I remember everything.”
He awkwardly took a swallow of water, rubbed his face, and leaned back on the pillows. From the courtyard came a cock’s sweet throbbing cry.
At about eleven the next morning, Wolfe knocked on the Khrenovs’ door. Some dishes tinkled with fright in the room, and Natasha’s laughter spilled forth. An instant later, she slipped out into the hall, carefully closing the door behind her.
“I’m so glad—Father is a lot better today.”
She was wearing a white blouse and a beige skirt with buttons along the hips. Her elongated, shiny eyes were happy.
“Awfully restless night,” she continued rapidly, “and now he’s cooled down completely. His temperature is normal. He has even decided to get up. They’ve just bathed him.”
“It’s sunny out today,” Wolfe said mysteriously. “I didn’t go to work.”
They were standing in the half-lit hall, leaning against the wall, not knowing what else to talk about.
“You know what, Natasha?” Wolfe suddenly ventured, pushing his broad, soft back away from the wall and thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his wrinkled gray trousers. “Let’s take a trip to the country today. We’ll be back by six. What do you say?”
Natasha stood with one shoulder pressed against the wall, also pushing away slightly.
“How can I leave Father alone? Still, though…”
Wolfe suddenly cheered up.
“Natasha, sweetheart, come on— please. Your dad is all right today, isn’t he? And the landlady is nearby in case he needs anything.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Natasha said slowly. “I’ll tell him.”
And, with a flip of her skirt, she turned back into the room.
Fully dressed but without his shirt collar, Khrenov was feebly groping for something on the table.
“Natasha, Natasha, you forgot to buy the papers yesterday…”
Natasha busied herself brewing some tea on the alcohol stove.
“Daddy, today I’d like to take a trip to the country. Wolfe invited me.”
“Of course, darling, you must go,” Khrenov said, and the bluish whites of his eyes filled with tears. “Believe me, I’m better today. If only it weren’t for this ridiculous weakness…”
When Natasha had left he again started slowly groping about the room, still searching for something . . . With a soft grunt he tried to move the couch. Then he looked under it—he lay prone on the floor, and stayed there, his head spinning nauseatingly. Slowly, laboriously, he got back on his feet, struggled over to his bed, lay down . . . And again he had the sensation that he was crossing some bridge, that he could hear the sound of a lumber mill, that yellow tree trunks were floating, that his feet were sinking deep into the moist sawdust, that a cool wind was blowing from the river, chilling him through and through…