“Nel crudo sassa infra Tevere ed Arno Da Cristo prese l’ultimo sigillo Che le sue membra du’ anni portarno.” (_Par._ 11, 106 ff.)
Our first expedition from Bibbiena was to La Verna, ever memorable through its associations with St Francis of Assisi. Here in the depth of mountain solitude, when the thought of regenerating mankind was strong within him, St Francis found the spot of his heart’s desire. Hither he came some ten years later, broken by disappointment and broken in health, but strong in the joy that comes from bearing all things patiently in the consciousness of a pure heart. And here, as the legend tells us, he was quite transformed into Jesus by love and compassion and received the impress of the most holy stigmata.
The retreat of La Verna lies at a distance of about eight miles from Bibbiena, 3720 feet above sea-level, on a plateau that forms a ledge, as it were, on the southern slope of the precipitous Penna. The road from Bibbiena
across the mountains into the valley of the Tiber skirts the Penna, which stands isolated, massive, and beetle-browed, among the loftier but less commanding heights of the Apennines. It is the “rough rock between the Tiber and the Arno,” as Dante has called it, a rock which commands a prospect without bounds. For the mountains of Tuscany, the plains of Romagna, and the rugged uplands of Umbria are all within sight, fading away in the blue distance that embraces the Tyrrhenian sea on one side and the Adriatic on the other. Quite apart from its historical associations, the spot, with its lofty beeches and pines, has many attractions; the near distance and the far outlook are both equally beautiful.
It was on a warm, sunny morning that we descended the hill of Bibbiena. Beyond the church of the Madonna del Sasso, the road mounted a ridge, and then descended and crossed the river Corsalone. Then began the steep, steady ascent of the Apennines. It was a beautiful day. The heights were lost in the morning haze, the air was laden with the vague perfume of spring growth. There is an Italian proverb which says that April calls up the flowers and May rejoices in their colours. As it was, the sun all around was at work softening sheath and leaf and bud. The hedge-rows were veiled in tenderest green, while here and there they were white with the flaky blossoms of the blackthorn. Violets, primroses, celandine and dark blue bell-hyacinths shone among the verdure of the roadside. Down by the river the fields were green with corn and waving herbage; further up the brown earth sloping away from the road was planted with trees, their trunks wedded to the stems of the vine. In these parts the vines are trained up pollard trees, over the stunted tops of which their branches are spread. These branches are then tightly wound round each other, two and two, tied together and their ends turned downwards. As we passed along, men were training and binding the vine, singing snatches of a song that ended with a minor cadence. From the hanging ends of the vine the shining sap was dropping, recalling the Italian simile of _piangere a vite tagliata_.