RAMBLES
IN
GERMANY AND ITALY,
IN
1840, 1842, AND 1843.
BY
MRS. SHELLEY.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET.
MDCCCXLIV.
O vedovate da perpetuo gelo
Terre, è d’incerto di mesto sorriso,
Addio! * * * Questo petto anelo
Scosse di gioia un palpito improvviso,
Quando il Tiranno splendido del cielo
Mi rivelò d’Italia il paradiso.—NICCOLINI.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
TO
SAMUEL ROGERS,
AUTHOR OF “THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY,” “ITALY,” ETC.
THESE VOLUMES ARE DEDICATED,
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN
OF
RESPECT, GRATITUDE, AND AFFECTION,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
I have found it a pleasant thing while travelling to have in the
carriage the works of those who have passed through the same country.
Sometimes they inform, sometimes they excite curiosity. If alone, they
serve as society; if with others, they suggest matter for conversation.
These Volumes were thus originated. Visiting spots often described,
pursuing a route such as form for the most part the common range of the
tourist—I could tell nothing new, except as each individual’s experience
possesses novelty. While I passed in haste from city to city; as I
travelled through mountain-passes or over vast extents of country, I put
down the daily occurrences—a guide, a pioneer, or simply a
fellow-traveller, for those who came after me.
When I reached Italy, however, and came south, I found that I could say
little of Florence and Rome, as far as regarded the cities themselves,
that had not been said so often and so well before, that I was satisfied
to select from my letters such portions merely as touched upon subjects
that I had not found mentioned elsewhere. It was otherwise as regarded
the people, especially in a political point of view; and in treating of
them my scope grew more serious.
I believe that no one can mingle much with the Italians without becoming
attached to them. Their faults injure each other; their good qualities
make them agreeable to strangers. Their courtesy, their simplicity of
manner, their evident desire to serve, their rare and exceeding
intelligence, give to the better specimens among the higher classes, and
to many among the lower, a charm all their own. In addition, therefore,
to being a mere gossiping companion to a traveller, I would fain say
something that may incite others to regard them favourably; something
explanatory of their real character.[1] But to speak of the state of
Italy and the Italians—
Non è poleggio da picciola barca
Quel, che fendendo va l’ardita prora,
Nè da nocchier, ch’a se medesmo parca.
When I began to put together what I knew, I found it too scant of
circumstance and experience to form a whole. I could only sketch facts,
guess at causes, hope for results. I have said little, therefore; but
what I have said, I believe that I may safely declare, may be depended
upon.
Time was, when travels in Italy were filled with contemptuous censures
of the effeminacy of the Italians—diatribes against the vice and
cowardice of the nobles—sneers at the courtly verses of the poets, who
were content to celebrate a marriage or a birth among the great:—their
learned men fared better, for there were always writers in Italy whose
names adorned European letters—yet still contempt was the general tone;
and of late years travellers (with the exception of Lady Morgan, whose
book is dear to the Italians), parrot the same, not because these things
still exist, but because they know no better.
Italy is, indeed, much changed. Their historians no longer limit
themselves to disputing dates, but burn with enthusiasm for liberty;
their poets, Manzoni and Niccolini at their head, direct their efforts
to elevating and invigorating the public mind. The country itself wears
a new aspect; it is struggling with its fetters,—not only with the
material ones that weigh on it so heavily, and which they endure with a
keen sense of shame, but with those that have entered into and bind the
soul—superstition, luxury, servility, indolence, violence, vice.
Since the date of these letters Italy has been much disturbed,—but the
risings and their unfortunate consequences to individuals, are regarded
by us with contempt, or excite only a desire of putting an end to them
as detrimental to the sufferers, without being of any utility to the
cause of civilisation and moral improvement. Yet it ought not to be
forgotten, that the oppression suffered in that portion of the country
which has been recently convulsed, is such as to justify Dr. Johnson’s
proposition, that “if the abuse be enormous, Nature will rise up, and
claiming her original rights, overturn a corrupt political system.”
Englishmen, in particular, ought to sympathise in their struggles; for
the aspiration for free institutions all over the world has its source
in England. Our example first taught the French nobility to seek to
raise themselves from courtiers into legislators. The American war of
independence, it is true, quickened this impulse, by showing the way to
a successful resistance to the undue exercise of authority; but the seed
was all sown by us. The swarms of English that overrun Italy keep the
feeling alive. An Italian gentleman naturally envies an Englishman,
hereditary or elective legislator. He envies him his pride of country,
in which he himself can in no way indulge. He knows, at best, that his
sovereign is a weak tool in the hands of a foreign potentate; and that
all that is aimed at by the governments that rule him, is to benefit
Austria—not Italy. But this forms but a small portion of his wrongs. He
sees that we enjoy the privilege of doing and saying whatever we please,
so that we infringe no law. If he write a book, it is submitted to the
censor, and if it be marked by any boldness of opinion, it is
suppressed. If he attempt any plan for the improvement of his
countrymen, he is checked; if a tardy permission be given him to
proceed, it is clogged with such conditions as nullify the effect. If he
limit his endeavours to self-improvement, he is suspected—surrounded by
spies; while his friends share in the odium that attaches to him. The
result of such persecution is to irritate or discourage. He either sinks
into the Circean Stye, in which so many drag out a degraded existence,
or he is irresistibly impelled to resist. No way to mitigate the ills he
groans under, or to serve his countrymen, is open, except secret
societies. The mischievous effects of such to those who are implicated
in them, are unspeakably great. They fear a spy in the man who shares
their oath; their acts are dark, and treachery hovers close. The result
is inevitable; their own moral sense is tampered with, and becomes
vitiated; or, if they escape this evil, and preserve the ingenuousness
of a free and noble nature, they are victims.
While thus every passion, bad and good, ferments—a touch is given, and
up springs armed revolt. This must be put down or the peace of Europe
will be disturbed. Peace is a lovely thing. It is horrible to image the
desolation of war; the cottage burnt, the labour of the husbandman
destroyed—outrage and death there, where security of late spread smiles
and joy:—and the fertility and beauty of Italy exaggerate still more the
hideousness of the contrast. Cannot it be that peaceful mediation and a
strong universal sense of justice may interpose, instead of the cannon
and bayonet?
There is another view to be taken. We have lately been accustomed to
look on Italy as a discontented province of Austria, forgetful that her
supremacy dates only from the downfall of Napoleon. From the invasion of
Charles VIII. till 1815, Italy has been a battle-field, where the
Spaniard, the French, and the German, have fought for mastery; and we
are blind indeed, if we do not see that such will occur again, at least
among the two last. Supposing a war to arise between them, one of the
first acts of aggression on the part of France would be to try to drive
the Germans from Italy. Even if peace continue, it is felt that the
papal power is tottering to its fall—it is only supported, because the
French will not allow Austria to extend her dominions, and the Austrian
is eager to prevent any change that may afford pretence for the French
to interfere. Did the present pope act with any degree of prudence, his
power thus propped might last some time longer; but as it is, who can
say, how soon, for the sake of peace in the rest of Italy, it may not be
necessary to curtail his territories.
The French feel this and begin to dream of dominion across the Alps—the
occupation of Ancona was a feeler put out—it gained no positive object
except to check Austria—for the rest its best effect was to reiterate
the lesson they have often taught, that no faith should be given to
their promises of liberation.
The Italians consider that the hour will arrive sooner or later when the
stranger will again dispute for dominion over them; when the peace of
their wealthy towns and smiling villages will be disturbed by nations
meeting in hostility on their soil. The efforts of their patriots
consequently tend to make preparation, that such an hour may find them,
from the Alps to Brundusium, united. They feel the necessity also of
numbering military leaders among themselves. The most enlightened
Italians instead of relying on the mystery of oaths, the terror of
assassination, the perpetual conspiracy of secret associations, are
anxious that their young men should exercise themselves in some school
of warfare—they wish that the new generation may be emancipated by their
courage, their knowledge, their virtues; which should oppose an
insurmountable barrier to foreign invasion and awe their rulers into
concession.
Niccolini, in his latest work, Arnaldo da Brescia, has put these
sentiments in the mouth of his hero. That poem, replete with passionate
eloquence and striking incident, presents a lively picture of the actual
state of Italy. The insolence of the German, the arrogance of the popes,
the degraded state of the people, and the aspirations of the patriots,
each find a voice. It is impossible not to hope well for a country,
whose poets, whose men of reflection and talent, without one exception,
all use the gifts of genius or knowledge, to teach the noblest lessons
of devotion to their country; and whose youth receive the same with
devoted enthusiasm.
When we visit Italy, we become what the Italians were censured for
being,—enjoyers of the beauties of nature, the elegance of art, the
delights of climate, the recollections of the past, and the pleasures of
society, without a thought beyond. Such to a great degree was I while
there, and my book does not pretend to be a political history or
dissertation. I give fragments—not a whole. Such as they are, I shall be
repaid for the labour and anxiety of putting them together, if they
induce some among my countrymen to regard with greater attention, and to
sympathise in the struggles of a country, the most illustrious and the
most unfortunate in the world.
CONTENTS.
PART I.—1840.
LETTER I.
PAGE
PROJECT FOR SPENDING THE SUMMER ON THE BANKS OF THE LAKE OF
COMO.—FINE SPRING.—STORMY WEATHER.—PASSAGE FROM DOVER TO
CALAIS.—THE DILIGENCE.—PARIS.—PLAN OF OUR ROUTE 1
LETTER II.
JOURNEY TO METZ.—A DAY SPENT AT METZ.—PROCEED TO TRÈVES.—ENTER
PRUSSIA.—TRÈVES.—VOYAGE DOWN THE MOSELLE.—SLOW STEAMBOAT UP THE
RHINE TO MAYENCE.—RAILROAD TO FRANCFORT 11
LETTER III.
DARMSTADT.—HEIDELBERG.—CARLSRUHE.—BADEN-BADEN 31
LETTER IV.
OFFENBERG.—ETTENHEIM.—FREYBURG.—THE HÖLLENTHAL.—THE BLACK
FOREST.—ARRIVE AT SCHAFFHAUSEN 42
LETTER V.
THE RHINE.—ZURICH.—JOURNEY TO COIRE.—VIA MALA.—THE
SPLUGEN.—CHIAVENNA.—COLICO.—THE STEAMBOAT ON THE LAKE OF COMO TO
CADENABBIA 49
LETTER VI.
ALBERGO GRANDE DELLA CADENABBIA.—THE BROTHERS BRENTANI.—THE VIEW
FROM OUR WINDOWS.—THE MADMAN.—ARRIVAL OF THE BOAT 64
LETTER VII.
EXCURSIONS ON THE LAKE.—MANZONI’S ODE OF “CINQUE MAGGIO” 75
LETTER VIII.
VOYAGE TO COMO.—THE OPERA.—WALK TOWARDS MENAGGIO 88
LETTER IX.
ITALIAN POETRY.—ITALIAN MASTER.—THE COUNTRY PEOPLE.—THE
FULCINO.—GRAND FESTA.—ADIEU TO CADENABBIA 95
LETTER X.
VOYAGE TO LECCO.—BERGAMO.—THE OPERA OF “MOSÈ.”—MILAN 105
LETTER XI.
NON-ARRIVAL OF A LETTER.—DEPARTURE OF MY FRIENDS.—SOLITUDE.—THE
DUOMO.—TABLE D’HÔTE.—AUSTRIAN GOVERNMENT 114
LETTER XII.
DEPARTURE FROM MILAN.—JOURNEY ACROSS THE SIMPLON.—LAKE OF
GENEVA.—LYONS.—STEAMBOAT TO CHALONS.—DILIGENCE TO PARIS.—HISTORY
OF THE EVENTFUL JOURNEY ACROSS MONT ST. GOTHARD 125