ITALY REVISITED.
In Mary Shelley's _Rambles in Germany and Italy_ in 1840-42-43,
published in 1844, we have not only a pleasing account of herself with
her son and friends during a pleasure trip, but some very interesting
and charming descriptions of continental life at that time.
Mary, with her son and two college friends, decided in June 1840 to
spend their vacation on the banks of the Lake of Como. The idea of
again visiting a country where she had so truly lived, and where she
had passed through the depths of sorrow, filled her with much emotion.
Her failing health made her feel the advantage that travelling and
change of country would be to her. After spending an enjoyable two
months of the spring at Richmond, visiting Raphael's cartoons at
Hampton Court, she went by way of Brighton and Hastings. On her way to
Dover she noticed how Hastings, a few years ago a mere fishing
village, had then become a new town. They were delayed at Dover by a
tempest, but left the next morning, the wind still blowing a gale;
reaching Calais they were further delayed by the tide. At length Paris
was arrived at, and we find Mary making her first experience at a
_table d'hote_. Mary was now travelling with a maid, which no
doubt her somewhat weakened health made a necessity to her. They went
to the Hotel Chatham at Paris. She felt all the renovating feeling of
being in a fresh country out of the little island; the weight of cares
seemed to fall from her; the life in Paris cheered her, though the
streets were dirty enough then--dirtier than those of London; whereas
the contrast is now in the opposite direction.
After a week here they went on towards Como by way of Frankfort. They
were to pass Metz, Treves, the Moselle, Coblentz, and the Rhine to
Mayence. The freedom from care and, worries in a foreign land, with
sufficient means, and only in the company of young people open to
enjoyment, gave new life to Mary. After staying a night at Metz, the
clean little town on the Moselle, they passed on to Treves. At
Thionville, the German frontier, they were struck by the wretched
appearance of the cottages in contrast to the French. From Treves they
proceeded by boat up the Moselle. The winding banks of the Moselle,
with the vineyards sheltered by mountains, are well described. The
peasants are content and prosperous, as, after the French Revolution,
they bought up the confiscated estates of the nobles, and so were able
to cultivate the land. The travellers rowed into the Rhine on reaching
Coblentz, and rested at the Bellevue; and now they passed by the
grander beauties of the Rhine. These made Mary wish to spend a summer
there, exploring its recesses. They reached Mayence at midnight, and
the next morning left by rail for Frankfort, the first train they had
entered on the Continent. Mary much preferred the comfort of railway
travelling. From Frankfort they engaged a voiturier to Schaffhausen,
staying at Baden-Baden. The ruined castles recall memories of changed
times, and Mary remarks how, except in England and Italy, country
houses of the rich seem unknown. At Darmstadt, where they stopped to
lunch, they were annoyed and amused too by the inconvenience and
inattention they were subjected to from the expected arrival of the
Grand Duke. On reaching Heidelberg, she remarks how, in travelling,
one is struck by the way that the pride of princes for further
dominion causes the devastation of the fairest countries. From the
ruined castle they looked over the Palatinate which had been laid
waste owing to the ambition of the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of our
James I. Mary could have lingered long among the picturesque
weed-grown walls, but had to continue the route to their destination.
At Baden they visited the gambling saloon, and saw _Rouge et
Noir_ played. They were much struck by the Falls of the Rhine at
Schaffhausen; and, on reaching Chiavenna, Mary had again the delight
of hearing and speaking Italian. After crossing the blank mountains,
who has not experienced the delight of this sensation has not yet
known one of the joys of existence. On arriving at their destination
at Lake Como, their temporary resting-place, a passing depression
seized the party, the feeling that often comes when shut in by
mountains away from home. No doubt Mary having reached Italy, the land
she loved, with Shelley, the feeling of being without him assailed
her.
At Cadenabia, on Lake Como, they had to consider ways and means. It
turned out that apartments, with all their difficulties, would equal
hotel expenses without the same amount of comfort. So they decided on
accepting the moderate terms offered by the landlord, and were
comfortably or even luxuriously installed, with five little bedrooms
and large private salon. In one nook of this Mrs. Shelley established
her embroidery frame, desk, books, and such things, showing her taste
for order and elegance. So for some weeks she and her son and two
companions were able to pass their time free from all household
worries. The lake and neighbourhood are picturesquely described. One
drawback to Mary's peace of mind was the arrival of her son's boat. He
seemed to have inherited his father's love of boating, and this
naturally filled her with apprehension. They made many pleasant
excursions, of which she always gives good descriptions, and also
enters clearly into any historical details connected with the country.
At times she was carried by the beauty and repose of the scene into
rapt moods which she thus describes:--
It has seemed to me, and on such an evening I have felt it, that the
world, endowed as it is outwardly with endless shapes and influences
of beauty and enjoyment, is peopled also in its spiritual life by
myriads of loving spirits, from whom, unaware, we catch impressions
which mould our thoughts to good, and thus they guide beneficially the
course of events and minister to the destiny of man. Whether the
beloved dead make a portion of this holy company, I dare not guess;
but that such exist, I feel. They keep far off while we are worldly,
evil, selfish; but draw near, imparting the reward of heaven-born joy,
when we are animated by noble thoughts and capable of disinterested
actions. Surely such gather round me to-night, part of that atmosphere
of peace and love which it is paradise to breathe.
I had thought such ecstasy dead in me for ever, but the sun of Italy
has thawed the frozen stream.
Such poetic feelings were the natural outcome of the quiet and repose
after the life of care and anxiety poor Mary had long been subjected
to. She always seems more in her element when describing mountain
cataracts, Alpine storms, water lashed into waves and foam by the
wind, all the changes of mountain and lake scenery; but this quiet
holiday with her son came to an end, and they had to think of turning
homewards. Before doing so, they passed by Milan, enjoyed the opera
there, and went to see Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper," which Mary
naturally much admires; she mentions the Luinis without enthusiasm.
While here, the non-arrival of a letter caused great anxiety to Mary,
as they were now obliged to return on account of Percy's term
commencing, and there was barely enough money for him to travel
without her; however, that was the only thing possible, and so it had
to be done. Percy returned to England with his two friends, and his
mother had to remain at Milan awaiting the letter. Days pass without
any letter coming to hand, lost days, for Mary was too anxious and
worried to be able to take any pleasure in her stay. Nor had she any
acquaintances in the place; she could scarcely endure to go down alone
to _table d'hôte_ dinner, although she overcame this feeling as
it was her only time of seeing anyone. Ten days thus passed by, days
of storm and tempest, during which her son and his companions
recrossed the Alps. They had left her on the 20th September, and it
was not till she reached Paris on the 12th October that she became
aware of the disastrous journey they had gone through, and how
impossible it would have been for them to manage even as they did, had
she been with them; indeed, she hardly could have lived through it.
The description of this journey was written to Mrs. Shelley in a most
graphic and picturesque letter by one of her son's companions. They
were nearly drowned while crossing the lake in the diligence on a
raft, during a violent storm. Next they were informed that the road of
the Dazio Grande to Airolo was washed away sixty feet under the
present torrent. They, with a guide, had to find their way over an
unused mountain track, rendered most dangerous by the storm. They all
lost shoes and stockings, and had to run on as best they could. Percy,
with some others, had lost the track; but they, providentially, met
the rest of the party at an inn at Piota, and from there managed to
reach Airolo; and so they crossed the stupendous St. Gothard Pass, one
of the wonders of the world.
Mrs. Shelley having at last recovered the letter from the Post Office,
returned with her maid and a vetturino who had three Irish ladies with
him, by way of Geneva, staying at Isola Bella. After passing the Lago
Maggiore, a turn in the road shut the lake and Italy from her sight,
and she proceeded on her journey with a heavy heart, as many a
traveller has done and many more will do, the fascination of Italy
under most circumstances being intense. Mary then describes one of the
evils of Italy in its then divided state. The southern side of the
Simplon belonged to the King of Sardinia, but its road led at once
into Austrian boundary. The Sardinian sovereign, therefore, devoted
this splendid pass to ruin to force people to go by Mont Cenis, and
thus rendered the road most dangerous for those who were forced to
traverse it. The journey over the Simplon proved most charming, and
Mrs. Shelley was very much pleased with the civility of her vetturino,
who managed everything admirably. Now, on her way to Geneva, she
passed the same scenes she had lived first in with Shelley. She thus
describes them:--
The far Alps were hid, the wide lake looked drear. At length I caught
a glimpse of the scenes among which I had lived, when first I stepped
out from childhood into life. There on the shores of Bellerive stood
Diodati; and our humble dwelling, Maison Ohapuis, nestled close to the
lake below. There were the terraces, the vineyards, the upward path
threading them, the little port where our boat lay moored. I could
mark and recognise a thousand peculiarities, familiar objects then,
forgotten since--now replete with recollections and associations. Was
I the same person who had lived there, the companion of the dead--for
all were gone? Even my young child, whom I had looked upon as the joy
of future years, had died in infancy. Not one hope, then in fair bud,
had opened into maturity; storm and blight and death had passed over,
and destroyed all. While yet very young, I had reached the position of
an aged person, driven back on memory for companionship with the
beloved, and now I looked on the inanimate objects that had surrounded
me, which survived the same in aspect as then, to feel that all my
life since is an unreal phantasmagoria--the shades that gathered round
that scene were the realities, the substances and truth of the soul's
life which I shall, I trust, hereafter rejoin.
Mary digresses at some length on the change of manners in the French
since the revolution of 1830, saying that they had lost so much of
their pleasant agreeable manner, their Monsieur and Madame, which
sounded so pretty. From Geneva by Lyons, through Chalons, the
diligence slowly carries her to Paris, and thence she shortly returned
to England in October.
Mary's next tour with her son was in 1842, by way of Amsterdam,
through Germany and Italy. From Frankfort she describes to a friend
her journey with its various mishaps. After spending a charming week
with friends in Hampshire, and then passing a day or two in London to
bid farewell to old friends, Mrs. Shelley, her son, and Mr. Knox
embarked for Antwerp on June 12, 1842. After the sea passage, which
Mary dreaded, the pleasure of entering the quiet Scheldt is always
great; but she does not seem to have recognised the charm of the
Belgian or Dutch quiet scenery. With her love of mountains, these
picturesque aspects seem lost on her; at least, she remarks that, "It
is strange that a scene, in itself uninteresting, becomes agreeable to
look at in a picture, from the truth with which it is depicted, and a
perfection of colouring which at once contrasts and harmonizes the
hues of sky and water." Mary does not seem to understand that the
artist who does this selects the beauties of nature to represent. A
truthful representation of a vulgarised piece of nature would be very
painful for an artist to look on or to paint. The English or Italian
villas of Lake Como, or the Riviera, would require a great deal of
neglect by the artist not to vulgarize the glorious scenes round them;
but this lesson has yet to be widely learnt in modern times, that
beauty can never spoil nature, however humble; but no amount of wealth
expended on a palace or mansion can make it fit for a picture, without
the artist's feeling, any more than the beauties of Italy on canvas
can be other than an eyesore without the same subtle power.
At Liège, fresh worries assailed the party. The difficulty of getting
all their luggage, as well as a theft of sixteen pounds from her son's
bedroom in the night, did not add to the pleasures of the commencement
of their tour; but, as Mary said, the discomfort was nothing to what
it would have been in 1840, when their means were far narrower, and
she feels, "Welcome this evil so that it be the only one," for, as she
says, one whose life had been so stained by tragedy could never regain
a healthy tone, if that is needed not to fear for those we love. On
reaching Cologne, the party went up the Rhine to Coblentz. As neither
Mary nor her companions had previously done this, they were again much
imposed upon by the steward. She recalls her former voyage with
Shelley and Claire, when in an open boat they passed the night on the
rapid river, "tethered" to a willow on the bank. When Frankfort is at
length reached, they have to decide where to pass the summer.
Kissingen is decided on, for Mrs. Shelley to try the baths. Here they
take lodgings, and all the discomforts of trying to get the
necessaries of life and some order, when quite ignorant of the
language of the place, are amusingly described by Mrs. Shelley. The
treatment and diet at the baths seem to have been very severe, nearly
every usual necessary of life being forbidden by the Government in
order to do justice to the efficacy of the baths.
Passing through various German towns their way to Leipsic, they stay
at Weimar, where Mary rather startles the reader by remarking that she
is not sure she would give the superiority to Goethe; that Schiller
had always appeared to her the greater man, so complete. It is true
she only knew the poets by translations, but the wonderful passages
translated from Goethe by Shelley might have impressed her more. Mary
is much struck on seeing the tombs of the poets by their being placed
in the same narrow chamber as the Princes, showing the genuine
admiration of the latter for those who had cast a lustre on their
kingdom, and their desire to share even in the grave the poet's
renown. Mary, when in the country of Frederic the Great, shows little
enthusiasm for that great monarch, so simple in his own life, so just,
so beloved, and so surrounded by dangers which he overcame for the
welfare of the country. What Frederic might have been in Napoleon's
place after the Revolution it is difficult to conceive, or how he
might have acted. Certainly not for mere self aggrandizement. But the
tyrannies of the petty German Princes Mary justly does not pass over,
such as the terrible story told in Schiller's _Cabal and Love_.
She recalls how the Duke of Hesse-Cassel sold his peasants for the
American war, to give with their pay jewels to his mistress, and how,
on her astonishment being expressed, the servant replied they only
cost seven thousand children of the soil just sent to America. On this
Mary remarks:--"History fails fearfully in its duty when it makes over
to the poet the record and memory of such an event; one, it is to be
hoped, that can never be renewed. And yet what acts of cruelty and
tyranny may not be reacted on the stage of the world which we boast of
as civilised, if one man has uncontrolled power over the lives of
many, the unwritten story of Russia may hereafter tell."
This seems to point to reminiscences of Claire's life in Russia. Mrs.
Shelley also remarks great superiority in the comfort, order, and
cleanliness in the Protestant over the Catholic parts of Germany,
where liberty of conscience has been gained, and is profoundly touched
on visiting Luther's chamber in the castle of Wartburg overlooking the
Thuringian Forest.
Her visits to Berlin and Dresden, during the heat of summer, do not
much strike the reader by her feeling for pictorial art. She is
impressed by world-renowned pictures; but her remarks, though those of
a clever woman, show that the love of nature, especially in its most
majestic forms, does not give or imply love of art. The feeling for
plastic art requires the emotion which runs through all art, and
without which it is nothing, to be distinctly innate as in the artist,
or to have been cultivated by surroundings and influence. True, it is
apparently difficult always to trace the influence. There is no one
step from the contemplation of the Alps to the knowledge of plastic
art. Literary art does not necessarily understand pictorial art: it
may profess to expound the latter, and the reader, equally or still
more ignorant, fancies that he appreciates the pictorial art because
he relishes its literary exposition. Surely a piece of true plastic
art, constantly before a child for it to learn to love, would do more
than much after study. The best of all ought to be given to
children--music, poetry, art--for it is easier then to instil than
later to eradicate. It is true these remarks may seem unnecessary with
regard to Mary Shelley, as, with all her real gifts and insight into
poetry, she is most modest about her deficiencies in art knowledge,
and is even apologetic concerning the remarks made in her letters, and
for this her truth of nature is to be commended. In music, also, she
seems more really moved by her own emotional nature than purely by the
music; how, otherwise, should she have been disappointed at hearing
_Masaniello_, while admiring German music, when Auber's grand
opera has had the highest admiration from the chief German musicians?
But she had not been previously moved towards it; that is the great
difference between perception and acquired knowledge, and why so
frequently the art of literature is mistaken for perception. But Mary
used her powers justly, and drew the line where she was conscious of
knowledge; she had real imagination of her own, and used the precious
gift justifiably, and thus kept honour and independence, a difficult
task for a woman in her position. She expresses pity for the
travellers she meets, who simply are anxious to have "done"
everything. She truly remarks:--"We must become a part of the scenes
around us, and they must mingle and become a portion of us, or we see
without seeing, and study without learning. There is no good, no
knowledge, unless we can go out from and take some of the external
into ourselves. This is the secret of mathematics as well as of
poetry."
Their trip to Prague, and its picturesque position, afforded great
pleasure to her. The stirring and romantic history is well
described--history, as Shelley truly says, is a record of crime and
misery. The first reformers sprang up in Bohemia. The martyrdom of
John Huss did not extinguish his enlightening influence; and while all
the rest of Europe was enslaved in darkness, Bohemia was free with a
pure religion. But such a bright example might not last, and Bohemia
became a province of the Empire, and not a hundred Protestants remain
in the country now. The interesting story of St. John Nepomuk, the
history of Wallenstein, with Schiller's finest tragedy, all lend their
interest to Prague. In the journey through Bohemia and southern
Germany, dirty and uncomfortable inns were conspicuous. The Lake of
Gemünden much struck Mary with its poetic beauty, and she felt it was
the place she should like to retreat to for a summer. From Ischl they
went over the Brenner Pass of the Lago di Garda on to Italy. Mary was
particularly struck by the beauties of Salzburg, with the immense
plain half encircled by mountains crowned by castles, with the high
Alps towering above all. She considered all this country superior to
the Swiss Alps, and longed to pass months there some time. By this
beautiful route they reached Verona, and then Venice. On the road to
Venice Mary became aware (as we have already noted) of an intimate
remembrance of each object, and each turn in the road. It was by this
very road she entered Venice twenty-five years before with her dying
child. She remarks that Shakspeare knew the feeling and endued the
grief of Queen Constance with terrible reality; and, later, the poem
of "The Wood Spurge" enforces the same sentiment. It was remarked by
Holcroft that the notice the soul takes of objects presented to the
eye in its hour of agony is a relief afforded by nature to permit the
nerves to endure pain. On reaching Venice a search for lodgings was
not successful; but two gentlemen, to whom they had introductions,
found for the party an hotel within their still limited means; their
bargain came to £9 a month each for everything included. They visited
again the Rialto, and Mrs. Shelley observes:--"Often when here before,
I visited this scene at this hour, or later, for often I expected
Shelley's return from Palazzo Mocenigo till two or three in the
morning. I watched the glancing of the oars, and heard the far song,
and saw the palaces sleeping in the light of the moon, which veils by
its deep shadows all that grieved the eye and hurt the heart in the
decaying palaces of Venice; then I saw, as now I see, the bridge of
the Rialto spanning the canal. All, all is the same; but, as the poet
says,--'The difference to me.'"
She notices many of the most celebrated of the pictures in the
Academia; and she had the good fortune of seeing St. Peter Martyr,
which she misnames St. Peter the Hermit, out of its dark niche in the
Church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo. She gives a very good description of
Venetian life at the time, and much commends its family affection and
family life as being of a much less selfish nature than in England; as
she remarks truly, if a traveller gets into a vicious or unpleasant
set in any country, it would not do to judge all the rest of the
nation, by that standard--as she considered Shelley did when staying
in Venice with Byron. The want of good education in Italy at that time
she considers the cause of the ruling indolence, love-making with the
young and money-keeping with the elder being the chief occupation. She
gives a very good description of the noble families and their descent.
Many of the Italian palaces preserved their pictures, and in the
Palazzo Pisani Mary saw the Paul Veronese, now in the National
Gallery, of "The family of Darius at the feet of Alexander." Mary's
love of Venice grew, and she seems to have entertained serious ideas
of taking a palace and settling there; but all the fancies of
travellers are not realised. One moonlit evening she heard an old
gondoliere challenge a younger one to alternate with him the stanzas
of the _Gerusalemme_. The men stood on the Piazzetta beside the
Laguna, surrounded by other gondolieri in the moonlight. They chanted
"The death of Clorinda" and other favourite passages; and though,
owing to Venetian dialect Mary could not follow every word, she was
much impressed by the dignity and beauty of the scene. The Pigeons of
St. Mark's existed then as now. Mary ended her stay in Venice by a
visit to the Opera, and joined a party, by invitation, to accompany
the Austrian Archduke to the Lido on his departure.
Mrs. Shelley much admired the expression in the early masters at
Padua, though she does not mention Giotto. In Florence, the expense of
the hotels again obliged her to go through the tiresome work of
seeking apartments. They fortunately found sunny rooms, as the cold
was intense. To cold followed rain, and she remarks:--"Walking is out
of the question; and driving-how I at once envy and despise the happy
rich who have carriages, and who use them only to drive every
afternoon in the Cascine. If I could, I would visit every spot
mentioned in Florentine history--visit its towns of old renown, and
ramble amid scenes familiar to Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarch, and
Machiavelli."
The descriptions of Ghirlandajo's pictures in Florence are very good.
Mary now evidently studies art with great care and intelligence, and
makes some very clever remarks appertaining to it. She is also able to
call attention to the fact that Mr. Kirkup had recently made the
discovery of the head of Dante Alighieri, painted by Giotto, on the
wall of the Chapel of the Palace of the Podestà at Florence. The fact
was mentioned by Vasari, and Kirkup was enabled to remove the
whitewash and uncover this inestimable treasure. Giotto, in the act of
painting this portrait, is the subject of one of the finest designs of
the English school--alas! not painted in any form of fresco on an
English wall.
From the art of Florence Mrs. Shelley turns to its history with her
accustomed clear-headed method. Space will not admit all the
interesting details, but her account of the factions and of the good
work and terrible tragedies of the Carbonari is most interesting. The
great equality in Florence is well noticed, accounting for the little
real distress among the poor, and the simplicity of life of the
nobles. She next enters into an account of modern Italian literature,
which she ranks high, and hopes much from. The same struggle between
romanticists and classicists existed as in other countries; and she
classes Manzoni with Walter Scott, though admitting that he has not
the same range of character. Mary and her party next proceeded by sea
to Rome. Here, again, the glories of Italy and its art failed not to
call forth eloquent remarks from Mary's pen; and her views, though at
times somewhat contradictory, are always well expressed. She, at
least, had a mind to appreciate the wonders of the Stanze, and to feel
that genius and intellect are not out of their province in art. She
only regrets that the great Italian art which can express so perfectly
the religious sentiment and divine ecstasy did not attempt the grand
feelings of humanity, the love which is faithful to death, the
emotions such as Shakespeare describes. While this wish exists, and
there are artists who can carry it out, art is not dead. After a very
instructive chapter on the modern history of the Papal States, we
again find Mary among the scenes dearest to her heart and her nature:
her next letter is dated from Sorrento. She feels herself to be in
Paradise; and who that has been in that wonderful country would not
sympathise with her enthusiasm! To be carried up the heights to
Ravello, and to see the glorious panorama around, she considered,
surpassed all her previous most noble experiences. Ravello, with its
magnificent cathedral covered with mosaics, is indeed a sight to have
seen; the road to Amalfi, the ruinous paper mills in the ravine, the
glorious picturesqueness, are all "well expressed and understood." Mrs.
Shelley seems to have considered June (1844) the perfection of weather
for Naples.