IT’S autumn in Florence, the perfect time to enjoy the Italian city. Most of the tourists have migrated for the winter season, inexplicably preferring the inferno of the Arno valley in July and August. In the old Santa Croce quarter, standing elegantly with its perfectly symmetrical marble façade, is one of the most prestigious Franciscan churches in the world. With its magnificent frescos, sculptures and stained-glass windows, the Basilica of Santa Croce is tranquillity itself. Its artworks and religious symbols are of such beauty that reverence or joyful contemplation are the only fitting responses. Yet, I didn’t come here for artistic joy. I came here to find the tomb of one of the most notorious names in political history, that of Niccolò Machiavelli (1469–1527).
On the right-hand side of the nave, alongside memorials commemorating Michelangelo and Dante, lies Machiavelli’s tomb. Incongruous, you might think. A modest tomb compared with the others, it is a simple sarcophagus made of white Carrara marble under a Latin inscription: ‘Tanto nomini nullum par elogium’ (‘No eulogy is equal to so great a name’). Seated on the sarcophagus is an allegorical depiction of Politics holding a medallion with a portrait said to capture the great man’s likeness. The sharp, shrewd, skinny profile bears an uncanny resemblance to Tony Blair. Are my reflections on Machiavelli’s relevance in contemporary politics playing tricks on me?
Esta historia es de la edición October 23, 2024 de Country Life UK.
Comience su prueba gratuita de Magzter GOLD de 7 días para acceder a miles de historias premium seleccionadas y a más de 9,000 revistas y periódicos.
Ya eres suscriptor ? Conectar
Esta historia es de la edición October 23, 2024 de Country Life UK.
Comience su prueba gratuita de Magzter GOLD de 7 días para acceder a miles de historias premium seleccionadas y a más de 9,000 revistas y periódicos.
Ya eres suscriptor? Conectar
Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
THE Spanish Pointer (1766–68) by Stubbs, a landmark painting in that it is the artist’s first depiction of a dog, has only been exhibited once in the 250 years since it was painted.
The great astral sneeze
Aurora Borealis, linked to celestial reindeer, firefoxes and assassinations, is one of Nature's most mesmerising, if fickle displays and has made headlines this year. Harry Pearson finds out why
'What a good boy am I'
We think of them as the stuff of childhood, but nursery rhymes such as Little Jack Horner tell tales of decidedly adult carryings-on, discovers Ian Morton
Forever a chorister
The music-and way of living-of the cabaret performer Kit Hesketh-Harvey was rooted in his upbringing as a cathedral chorister, as his sister, Sarah Sands, discovered after his death
Best of British
In this collection of short (5,000-6,000-word) pen portraits, writes the author, 'I wanted to present a number of \"Great British Commanders\" as individuals; not because I am a devotee of the \"great man, or woman, school of history\", but simply because the task is interesting.' It is, and so are Michael Clarke's choices.
Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
It's always darkest before the dawn
After witnessing a particularly lacklustre and insipid dawn on a leaden November day, John Lewis-Stempel takes solace in the fleeting appearance of a rare black fox and a kestrel in hot pursuit of a pipistrelle bat
Tarrying in the mulberry shade
On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.
