_October_ 23_rd_.—Do you recollect our evening rambles last year upon the
hill of pines? and the dark valley where we used to muse in the twilight?
I remember we often fancied the scene like Valombrosa; and vowed, if ever
an occasion offered, to visit that deep retirement. I had put off the
execution of this pilgrimage from day to day till the warm weather was
gone; and the Florentines declared I should be frozen if I attempted it.
Everybody stared last night at the opera when I told them I was going to
bury myself in fallen leaves, and hear no music but their rustlings.
Mr. — was just as eager as myself to escape the chit-chat and nothingness
of Florence; so we finally determined upon our expedition, and mounting
our horses, set out this morning, happily without any company but the
spirit which led us along. We had need of inspiration, since nothing
else, I think, would have tempted us over such dreary, uninteresting
hillocks as rise from the banks of the Arno. The hoary olive is their
principal vegetation; so that Nature, in this part of the country, seems
in a withering decrepit state, and may not unaptly be compared to “an old
woman clothed in grey.” However, we did not suffer the prospect to damp
our enthusiasm, which was the better preserved for Valombrosa.
About half way, our palfreys thought proper to look out for some oats,
and I to creep into a sort of granary in the midst of a barren waste,
scattered over with white rocks, that reflected more heat than I cared
for, although I had been told snow and ice were to be my portion.
Seating myself on the floor between heaps of corn, I reached down a few
purple clusters of Muscadine grapes, which hung to dry in the ceiling,
and amused myself very pleasantly with them till the horses had finished
their meal and it was lawful to set forwards. We met with nothing but
rocky steeps shattered into fragments, and such roads as half inclined us
to repent our undertaking; but cold was not yet amongst the number of our
evils.
At last, after ascending a tedious while, we began to feel the wind blow
sharp from the peaks of the mountains, and to hear the murmur of the
forests of pine which shade their acclivities. A paved path leads across
them, quite darkened by boughs, which, meeting over our heads, cast a
gloom and a chill below, that would have stopped the proceedings of
reasonable mortals, and sent them to bask in the plain; but, being not so
easily discomfited, we threw ourselves boldly into the forest. It
presented one of those confusions of tall straight stems I am so fond of,
and exhaled a fresh aromatic odour that revived my spirits.
The cold to be sure was piercing; but setting that at defiance, we
galloped on, and issued shortly into a vast amphitheatre of lawns and
meadows, surrounded by thick woods beautifully green. Flocks of sheep
were dispersed on the slopes, whose smoothness and verdure equal our
English pastures. Steep cliffs and mountains, clothed with beech to
their very summits, guard this retired valley. The herbage, moistened by
streams which fall from the eminences, has never been known to fade; and,
whilst the chief part of Tuscany is parched by the heats of summer, these
upland meadows retain the freshness of spring. I regretted not having
visited them sooner, as autumn had already made great havoc amongst the
foliage. Showers of leaves blew full in our faces as we rode towards the
convent, placed at an extremity of the vale, and sheltered by remote firs
and chestnuts towering one above another.
Alighting before the entrance, two fathers came out and received us into
the peace of their retirement. We found a blazing fire, and tables
spread very comfortably before it, round which five or six overgrown
friars were lounging, who seemed, by the sleekness and rosy hue of their
countenances, not totally to have despised this mortal existence.
My letters of recommendation soon brought the heads of the order about
me, fair round figures, such as a Chinese would have placed in his
pagoda. I could willingly have dispensed with their attention; yet to
avoid this was scarcely within the circle of possibility. All dinner we
endured the silliest questions imaginable; but that despatched, away flew
your humble servant to the fields and forests. The fathers made a shift
to waddle after, as fast and as complaisantly as they were able, but were
soon distanced.
Now, I found myself at liberty, and ran up a narrow path overhung by
rock, with bushy chestnuts starting from the crevices. This led me into
wild glens of beech trees, mostly decayed and covered with moss: several
were fallen. It was amongst these the holy hermit Gualbertus had his
cell. I rested a moment upon one of their huge branches, listening to
the roar of a waterfall which the wood concealed; then springing up, I
clambered over crags and fragments, guided by the sound, and presently
discovered a full stream, precipitating itself down a cliff of pine,
amongst which I remained several minutes, watching the fallen floods;
till, tired with their endless succession, I plunged into the thickest of
the grove. A beech received me, like a second Gualbertus, in its hollow
trunk. The dry leaves chased each other down the steeps on the edge of
the torrents with hollow rustlings, whilst the solemn wave of the forests
above exactly answered the idea I had formed of Valombrosa,
“ . . . where th’ Etrurian shades
High overarch’t imbowr.”
The scene was beginning to take effect, and the genius of Milton to move
across his favourite valley, when the fathers arrived puffing and
blowing, by an easier ascent than I knew of. Pardon me, if I cursed
their intrusion, and wished them as still as Gualbertus.
“You have missed the way,” cried the youngest; “the hermitage, with the
fine picture by Andrea del Sarto, which all the English admire, is on the
opposite side of the wood: there don’t you see it on the point of the
cliff?”
“Yes, yes,” said I a little peevishly; “I wonder the devil has not pushed
it down long ago; it seems to invite his kick.”
“Satan,” answered the old Pagod very dryly, “is full of malice; but
whoever drinks of a spring which the Lord causeth to flow near the
hermitage is freed from his illusions.”
“Are they so?” replied I with a sanctified accent; “then prithee conduct
me thither, for I have great need of such salutary waters, being troubled
with strange fancies and imaginations, such as the evil one himself ought
to be ashamed of inspiring.”
The youngest father shook his head, as much as to say, “This is nothing
more than a heretic’s whim.”
The senior—muddled, I conjecture—set forwards with greater piety, and
began some legendary tales of the kind which my soul loveth: rare stories
of caves and dens of the earth, inhabited by ancient men familiar with
spirits, and not the least discomposed by a party of angels coming to
dinner, or playing a game at miracles to pass away the evening. He
pointed to a chasm in the cliff, round which we were winding by a spiral
path, where Gualbertus used to sleep, and, turning himself towards the
west, see a long succession of saints and martyrs sweeping athwart the
sky, and gilding the clouds with far brighter splendours than the setting
sun. Here he rested till his last hour, when the bells of the convent
beneath (which till that moment would have made dogs howl, had there been
any within its precincts) struck out such harmonious jingling that all
the country around was ravished, and began lifting up their eyes with
singular devotion, when, behold! cherubim appeared, light dawned, and
birds chirped, although it was midnight. Alas! alas! what would I not
give to witness such a spectacle, and read my prayer-book by the
effulgence of opening heaven!
However, willing to see something at least, I crept into the consecrated
cleft, and extended myself on its rugged surface. A very penitential
couch! but commanding glorious prospects of the world below, which lay
this evening in deep blue shade; the sun looking red and angry through
misty vapours, which prevented our discovering the Tuscan sea.
Finding the rock as damp as might be expected, I soon shifted my
quarters, and followed the youngest father up to the Romitorio, a snug
little hermitage, with a neat chapel, and altar-piece by Andrea del
Sarto, which I should have more minutely examined in any other place, but
where the wild scenery of hanging woods and meadows, steep hills and
nodding precipices, possessed my whole attention. I just stayed to taste
the holy fountain; and then, escaping from my conductors, ran eagerly
down the path, leaping over the springs that crossed it, and entered a
lawn of the smoothest turf, grazed by sheep, and swelling into gentle
acclivities, skirted by groves of fir, whose solemn verdure formed a
contrast with its tender green. Beyond this pleasant opening rises a
second, hemmed in with copses; and still higher, a third, whence a forest
of young pines spires up into a lofty theatre terminated by peaks,
universally concealed under a thick mantle of beech, tinged with ruddy
brown. Pausing in the midst of the lawns, and looking upward to the
sweeps of wood which surrounded me, I addressed my orisons to the genius
of the place, and prayed that I might once more return into its bosom,
and be permitted to bring you along with me, for surely such meads, such
groves, were formed for our enjoyment!
This little rite performed, I walked on quite to the extremity of the
pastures, traversed a thicket, and found myself on the edge of
precipices, beneath whose base the whole Val d’Arno lies expanded. I
listened to distant murmurings in the plain, saw smoke rise from the
cottages, and viewed a vast tract of barren country, which evening
rendered still more desolate, bounded by the high mountain of Radicofani.
Then, turning round, I beheld the whole extent of rock and forest, the
groves of beech, and wilds above the convent, glowing with fiery red, for
the sun, making a last effort to pierce the vapours, produced this
effect; which was the more striking, as the sky was dark, and the rest of
the prospect of a melancholy blue.
Returning slowly homeward, I marked the warm glow deserting the
eminences, and heard the bell toll sullenly to vespers. The young boys
of the seminary were moving in a body to their dark inclosure, all
dressed in black. Many of them looked pale and wan. I wished to ask
them whether the solitude of Valombrosa suited their age and vivacity;
but a tall spectre of a priest drove them along like a herd, and
presently, the gates opening, I saw them no more. A sadness I could
scarcely account for came over me. I shivered at the bare idea of being
cooped up in such a place, and seeing no other living objects than
scarecrow priests and friars; to hear every day the same dull service and
droning organ; view the same cloisters; be led the same walks; watched,
cribbed, confined, and filled with superstitious fears.
The night was growing chill, the winds boisterous, and in the intervals
of the gusts I had the addition of a lamentable screech-owl to raise my
spirits. Upon the whole, I was not at all concerned to meet the fathers,
who came out to show me to my room, and entertain me with various
gossipings, both sacred and profane, till supper appeared.
Next morning, the Padre Decano gave us chocolate in his apartment; and
afterwards led us round the convent, insisting most unmercifully upon our
viewing every cell and every dormitory. However, I was determined to
make a full stop at the organ, which is perhaps the most harmonious I
ever played upon; but placed in a dark, dingy recess, feebly lighted by
lamps, not calculated to inspire triumphant voluntaries. The monks, who
had all crowded around me when I first began, in expectation of brisk
jigs and lively overtures, soon took themselves away upon hearing a
strain ten times more sorrowful than that to which they were accustomed.
I did not lament their departure, but played dismally on till our horses
came round to the gate. We mounted, spurred back through the grove of
pines which protect Valombrosa from intrusion, descended the steeps, and,
gaining the plains, galloped in three hours to Florence.