_Rome, Jan_. 12, 1848.--My time in Lombardy and Switzerland was a
series of beautiful pictures, dramatic episodes, not without some
original life in myself. When I wrote to you from Como, I had a
peaceful season. I floated on the lake with my graceful Polish
countess, hearing her stories of heroic sorrow; or I walked in the
delicious gardens of the villas, with many another summer friend. Red
banners floated, children sang and shouted, the lakes of Venus and
Diana glittered in the sun. The pretty girls of Bellaggio, with their
coral necklaces, brought flowers to the "American countess," and
"hoped she would be as happy as she deserved." Whether this cautious
wish is fulfilled, I know not, but certainly I left all the glitter of
life behind at Como.
My days at Milan were not unmarked. I have known some happy hours, but
they all lead to sorrow; and not only the cups of wine, but of milk,
seem drugged with poison for me. It does not _seem_ to be my fault,
this Destiny; I do not court these things,--they come. I am a poor
magnet, with power to be wounded by the bodies I attract.
Leaving Milan, I had a brilliant day in Parma. I had not known
Correggio before; he deserves all his fame. I stood in the parlor
of the Abbess, the person for whom all was done, and Paradise seemed
opened by the nymph, upon her car of light, and the divine children
peeping through the vines. Sweet soul of love! I should weary of you,
too; but it was glorious that day.
I had another good day, too, crossing the Apennines. The young
crescent moon rose in orange twilight, just as I reached the highest
peak. I was alone on foot; I heard no sound; I prayed.
At Florence, I was very ill. For three weeks, my life hung upon
a thread. The effect of the Italian climate on my health is not
favorable. I feel as if I had received a great injury. I am tired
and woe-worn; often, in the bed, I wish I could weep my life away.
However, they brought me gruel, I took it, and after a while rose up
again. In the time of the vintage, I went alone to Sienna. This is a
real untouched Italian place. This excursion, and the grapes, restored
me at that time.
When I arrived in Rome, I was at first intoxicated to be here. The
weather was beautiful, and many circumstances combined to place me in
a kind of passive, childlike well-being. That is all over now, and,
with this year, I enter upon a sphere of my destiny so difficult, that
I, at present, see no way out, except through the gate of death. It
is useless to write of it; you are at a distance and cannot help
me;--whether accident or angel will, I have no intimation. I have no
reason to hope I shall not reap what I have sown, and do not. Yet how
I shall endure it I cannot guess; it is all a dark, sad enigma. The
beautiful forms of art charm no more, and a love, in which there is
all fondness, but no help, flatters in vain. I am all alone; nobody
around me sees any of this. My numerous friendly acquaintances are
troubled if they see me ill, and who so affectionate and kind as Mr.
and Mrs. S.?