I felt as though this April, this radiant Spring, were the most
glorious time in my life, I was assimilating fresh impressions of Art
and Nature every hour; the conversations I was enjoying with my Italian
and French friends set me day by day pondering over new thoughts; I saw
myself restored to life, and a better life. At the beginning of April,
moreover, some girls from the North made their triumphal entry into the
Scandinavian Club. Without being specially beautiful or remarkable,
they absolutely charmed me. It was a full year since the language of
home had sounded in my ears from the lips of a girl, since I had seen
the smile in the blue eyes and encountered the heart-ensnaring charm,
in jest, or earnest, of the young women of the North. I had recently
heard the entrancing castrato singing at St. Peter's, and, on
conquering my aversion, could not but admire it. Now I heard once more
simple, but natural, Danish and Swedish songs. Merely to speak Danish
again with a young woman, was a delight. And there was one who,
delicately and unmistakably and defencelessly, showed me that I was not
indifferent to her. That melted me, and from that time forth the
beauties of Italy were enhanced tenfold in my eyes.
All that I was acquainted with in Rome, all that I saw every day with
Georges Noufflard, I could show her and her party, from the most
accessible things, which were nevertheless fresh to the newcomers, such
as the Pantheon, Acqua Paola, San Pietro in Montorio, the grave of
Cecilia Metella, and the grottoes of Egeria, to the great collections
of Art in the Vatican, or the Capitol, or in the wonderful Galleria
Borghese. All this, that I was accustomed to see alone with Noufflard,
acquired new splendour when a blonde girl walked by my side, asking
sensible questions, and showing me the gratitude of youth for good
instruction. With her nineteen years I suppose she thought me
marvellously clever. But the works of Art that lay a little outside the
beaten track, I likewise showed to my compatriots. I had never been
able to tolerate Guido Reni; but his playing angels in the chapel of
San Gregorio excited my profound admiration, and it was a satisfaction
to me to pour this into the receptive ear of a girl compatriot. These
angels delighted me so that I could hardly tear myself away from them.
The fine malice, the mild coquetry, even in the expression of the
noblest purity and the loftiest dignity, enchanted us.
I had been in the habit of going out to the environs of Rome with
Georges Noufflard, for instance, to the large, handsome gardens of the
Villa Doria Pamfili, or the Villa Madama, with its beautiful frescoes
and stucco-work, executed by Raphael's pupils, Giulio Romano and
others, from drawings by that master. But it was a new delight to drive
over the Campagna with a girl who spoke Danish by my side, and to see
her Northern complexion in the sun of the South. With my French friend,
I gladly joined the excursions of her party to Nemi, Albano, Tivoli.
Never in my life had I felt so happy as I did then. I was quite
recovered. Only a fortnight after I had risen from a sick-bed that had
claimed me four months and a half, I was going about, thanks to my
youth, as I did before I was ill. For my excursions, I had a comrade
after my own heart, well-bred, educated, and noble-minded; I fell in
love a little a few times a week; I saw lakes, fields, olive groves,
mountains, scenery, exactly to my taste. I had always a _permesso_ for
the Vatican collections in my pocket. I felt intoxicated with delight,
dizzy with enjoyment.
It seemed to me that of all I had seen in the world, Tivoli was the
most lovely. The old "temple of the Sibyl" on the hill stood on
consecrated ground, and consecrated the whole neighbourhood. I loved
those waterfalls, which impressed me much more than Trollhättan
[Footnote: Trollhättan, a celebrated waterfall near Göteborg in
Sweden.], had done in my childhood. In one place the water falls down,
black and boiling, into a hollow of the rock, and reminded me of the
descent into Tartarus; in another the cataract runs, smiling and
twinkling with millions of shining pearls, in the strong sunlight. In a
third place, the great cascade rushes down over the rocks. There, where
it touches the nether rocks, rests the end of the enormous rainbow
which, when the sun shines, is always suspended across it. Noufflard
told me that Niagara itself impressed one less. We scrambled along the
cliff until we stood above the great waterfall, and could see nothing
but the roaring, foaming white water, leaping and dashing down; it
looked as though the seething and spraying masses of water were
springing over each other's heads in a mad race, and there was such
power, such natural persuasion in it, that one seemed drawn with it,
and gliding, as it were, dragged into the abyss. It was as though all
Nature were disembodied, and flinging herself down.
Like a Latin, Noufflard personified it all; he saw the dance of nymphs
in the waves, and their veils in the clouds of spray. My way of
regarding Nature was diametrically opposite, and pantheistic. I lost
consciousness of my own personality, felt myself one with the falling
water and merged myself into Nature, instead of gathering it up into
figures. I felt myself an individuality of the North, conscious of my
being.
X
One afternoon a large party of us had taken our meal at an inn on the
lake of Nemi. The evening was more than earthly. The calm, still,
mountain lake, the old, filled-up crater, on the top of the mountain,
had a fairy-like effect. I dropped down behind a boulder and lay for a
long time alone, lost in ecstasy, out of sight of the others. All at
once I saw a blue veil fluttering in the breeze quite near me. It was
the young Danish girl, who had sat down with me. The red light of the
evening, Nemi and she, merged in one. Not far away some people were
setting fire to a blaze of twigs and leaves; one solitary bird warbled
across the lake; the cypresses wept; the pines glowered; the olive
trees bathed their foliage in the mild warmth; one cloud sailed across
the sky, and its reflection glided over the lake. One could not bear to
raise the voice.
It was like a muffled, muffled concert. Here were life, reality and
dreams. Here were sun, warmth and light. Here were colour, form and
line, and in this line, outlined by the mountains against the sky, the
artistic background of all the beauty.
Noufflard and I accompanied our Northern friends from Albano to the
station; they were going on as far as Naples, and thence returning
home. We said good-bye and walked back to Albano in the mild Summer
evening. The stars sparkled and shone bright, Cassiopaeia showed itself
in its most favourable position, and Charles's Wain stood, as if in
sheer high spirits, on its head, which seemed to be its recreation just
about this time.
It, too, was evidently a little dazed this unique, inimitable Spring.