Now blest for ever be that heaven-sprung art
Which can transport us in its magic power
From all the turmoil of the busy crowd,
From the gay haunts where pleasure is ador'd,
'Mid the hot sick'ning glare of pomp and light;
And fashion worshipp'd by a gaudy throng
Of heartless idlers--from the jarring world
And all its passions, follies, cares, and crimes--
And bids us gaze, even in the city's heart,
On such a scene as this! O fairest spot!
If but the pictured semblance, the dead image
Of thy majestic beauty, hath a power
To wake such deep delight; if that blue lake,
Over whose lifeless breast no breezes play,
Those mimic mountains robed in purple light,
Yon painted verdure that but _seems_ to glow,
Those forms unbreathing, and those motionless woods,
A beauteous mockery all--can ravish thus,
What would it be, could we now gaze indeed
Upon thy _living_ landscape? could we breathe
Thy mountain air, and listen to thy waves,
As they run rippling past our feet, and see
That lake lit up by dancing sunbeams--and
Those light leaves quivering in the summer air;
Or linger some sweet eve just on this spot
Where now we _seem_ to stand, and watch the stars
Flash into splendour, one by one, as night
Steals over yon snow-peaks, and twilight fades
Behind the steeps of Jura! here, O _here_!
'Mid scenes where Genius, Worth and Wisdom dwelt,[D]
Which fancy peopled with a glowing train
Of most divine creations--Here to stray
With _one_ most cherished, and in loving eyes
Read a sweet comment on the wonders round--
Would this indeed be bliss? would not the soul
Be lost in its own depths? and the full heart
Languish with sense of beauty unexprest,
And faint beneath its own excess of life?
_Saturday._--Quitted Geneva, and slept at St. Maurice. I was ill
during the last few days of our stay, and therefore left Geneva with
the less regret. I suffer now so constantly, that a day tolerably free
from pain seems a blessing for which I can scarce be sufficiently
thankful. Such was yesterday.
Our road lay along the south bank of the lake, through Evian, Thonon,
St. Gingough: and on the opposite shores we had in view successively,
Lausanne, Vevai, Clarens, and Chillon. A rain storm pursued, or almost
surrounded us the whole morning; but we had the good fortune to escape
it. We travelled faster than it could pursue, and it seemed to retire
before us as we approached. The effect was surprisingly beautiful; for
while the two extremities of the lake were discoloured and enveloped
in gloom, that part opposite to us was as blue and transparent as
heaven itself, and almost as bright. Over Vevai, as we viewed it from
La Meillerie, rested one end of a glorious rainbow: the other
extremity appeared to touch the bosom of the lake, and shone vividly
against the dark mountains above Chillon. La Meillerie--Vevai! what
magic in those names! and O what a power has genius to hallow with its
lovely creations, scenes already so lavishly adorned by Nature! it was
not, however, of St. Preux I thought, as I passed under the rock of
the Meillerie. Ah! how much of happiness, of enjoyment, have I lost,
in being forced to struggle against my feelings, instead of abandoning
myself to them! but surely I have done right. Let me repeat it again
and again to myself, and let that thought, if possible, strengthen and
console me.
_Monday._--I have resolved to attempt no description of scenery; but
my pen is fascinated. I _must_ note a few of the objects which struck
me to-day and yesterday, that I may at will combine them hereafter to
my mind's eye, and recall the glorious pictures I beheld, as we
travelled through the Vallais to Brig: the swollen and turbid (no
longer "blue and arrowy") Rhone, rushing and roaring along; the
gigantic mountains in all their endless variety of fantastic forms,
which enclosed us round,--their summits now robed in curling clouds,
and then, as the winds swept them aside, glittering in the sunshine;
the little villages perched like eagles' nests on the cliffs, far, far
above our heads; the deep rocky channels through which the torrents
had madly broken a way, tearing through every obstacle till they
reached the Rhone, and marking their course with devastation; the
scene of direful ruin at Martigny; the cataracts gushing, bounding
from the living rock and plunging into some unseen abyss below; even
the shrubs and the fruit trees which in the wider parts of the valley
bordered the road side; the vines, the rich scarlet barberries, the
apples and pears which we might have gathered by extending our
hands;--all and each, when I recall them, will rise up a vivid picture
before my own fancy;--but never could be truly represented to the mind
of another--at least through the medium of words.
And yet, with all its wonders and beauties, this day's journey has not
enchanted me like Saturday's. The scenery _then_ had a different
species of beauty, a deeper interest--when the dark blue sky was above
our heads, and the transparent lake shone another heaven at our feet,
and the recollection of great and glorious names, and visions of
poetic fancy, and ideal forms more lovely than ever trod this earth,
hovered around us:--and then those thoughts which would
intrude--remembrances of the far-off absent, who are or have been
loved, mingled with the whole, and shed an imaginary splendour or a
tender interest, over scenes which required no extraneous powers to
enhance their native loveliness.--no charm borrowed from imagination
to embellish the all-beautiful reality.
_Duomo d'Ossola._--What shall I say of the marvellous, the miraculous
Simplon? Nothing: every body has said already every thing that _can_
be said and _exclaimed_.
In our descent, as the valley widened, and the stern terrific features
of the scene assumed a gentler character, we came to the beautiful
village of Davedro, with its cottages and vineyards spread over a
green slope, between the mountains and the torrent below. This lovely
nook struck me the more from its contrast with the region of snows,
clouds, and barren rocks to which our eyes had been for several hours
accustomed. In such a spot as Davedro I fancied I should wish to
_live_, could I in life assemble round me all that my craving heart
and boundless spirit desire;--_or die_, when life had exhausted all
excitement, and the subdued and weary soul had learned to be content
with repose:--but not not till _then_.
We are now in Italy; but have not yet heard the soft sounds of the
Italian language. However, we read with great satisfaction the Italian
denomination of our Inn, "La grande Alberga della Villa"--called out
"Cameriere!" instead of "Garçon!"--plucked ripe grapes as they hung
from the treillages above our heads--gathered green figs from the
trees, bursting and luscious--panted with the intense heat--intense
and overpowering from its contrast with the cold of the Alpine regions
we had just left--and fancied we began to feel
"----cette vie enivrante,
Que le solei du sud inspire à tous les sens."
* * * * *
_11 at night._--Fatigue and excitement have lately proved too much for
me: but I will not sink. I will yet bear up; and when a day thus
passed amid scenes like those of a romance, amid all that would once
have charmed my imagination, and enchanted my senses, brings no real
pleasure, but is ended, as _now_ it ends, in tears, in bitterness of
heart, in languor, in sickness, and in pain--ah! let me remember the
lesson of resignation I have lately learned; and by elevating my
thoughts to a better world, turn to look upon the miserable affections
which have agitated me _here_ as----[E]
Could I but become as insensible, as regardless of the painful past as
I am of the all lovely present! Why was I proud of my victory over
passion? alas! what avails it that I have shaken the viper from my
hand, if I have no miraculous antidote against the venom which has
mingled with my life-blood, and clogged the pulses of my heart! But
the antidote of Paul--even faith--may it not be mine if I duly seek
it?
* * * * *
_Arona, on the banks of the Lago Maggiore._--Rousseau mentions
somewhere, that it was once his intention to place the scene of the
Heloïse in the Borromean Islands. What a French idea! How strangely
incongruous had the pastoral simplicity of his lovers appeared in such
a scene! It must have changed, if not the whole plan, at least the
whole colouring of the tale. Imagine _la divine_ JULIE tripping up and
down the artificial terraces of the Isola Bella, among flower pots and
statues, and colonnades and grottos; and St. Preux sighing towards
her, from some trim fantastic wilderness in the Isola Madre!
The day was heavenly, and I shall never forget the sunset, as we
viewed it reflected in the lake, which appeared at one moment an
expanse of living fire. This is the first we have seen of those
effulgent sunsets with which Italy will make us familiar.
_Milan._--Our journey yesterday, through the flat fertile plains of
Lombardy, was not very interesting; and the want of novelty and
excitement made it fatiguing, in spite of the matchless roads and the
celerity with which we travelled.
Whatever we may think of Napoleon in England, it is impossible to
travel on the Continent, and more particularly through Lombardy,
without being struck with the magnificence and vastness of his public
works--either designed or executed. He is more regretted here than in
France; or rather he has not been so soon banished from men's minds.
In Italy he followed the rational policy of depressing the nobles, and
providing occupation and amusement for the lower classes. I spoke
to-day with an intelligent artisan, who pointed out to us a hall built
near the public walk by Napoleon, for the people to dance and assemble
in, when the weather was unfavourable. The man concluded some very
animated and sensible remarks on the late events, by adding
expressively, that though many had been benefited by the change, there
was to him and all others of his class as much difference between the
late reign and the present, as between _l'or et le fer_.
The silver shrine of St. Carlo Borromeo, with all its dazzling waste
of magnificence, struck me with a feeling of melancholy and
indignation. The gems and gold which lend such a horrible splendour to
corruption; the skeleton head, grinning ghastly under its invaluable
coronet; the skeleton hand supporting a crozier glittering with
diamonds, appeared so frightful, so senseless a mockery of the
excellent, simple-minded, and benevolent being they were intended to
honour, that I could but wonder, and escape from the sight as quickly
as possible. The Duomo is on the whole more remarkable for the
splendour of the material, than the good taste with which it is
employed: the statues which adorn it inside and out, are sufficient of
themselves to form a very respectable congregation: they are four
thousand in number.
_9th, Tuesday._--We gave the morning to the churches, and the evening
to the Ambrosian library. The day was, on the whole, more fatiguing
than edifying or amusing. I remarked whatever was remarkable, admired
all that is usually admired, but brought away few impressions of
novelty or pleasure. The objects which principally struck my
capricious and fastidious fancy, were precisely those which passed
unnoticed by every one else, and are not worth recording. In the first
church we visited, I saw a young girl respectably and even elegantly
dressed, in the beautiful costume of the Milanese, who was kneeling on
the pavement before a crucifix, weeping bitterly, and at the same time
fanning herself most vehemently with a large green fan. Another church
(St. Alessandro, I think) was oddly decorated for a Christian temple.
A statue of Venus stood on one side of the porch, a statue of Hercules
on the other. The two divinities, whose attributes could not be
mistaken, had been _converted_ from heathenism into two very
respectable saints. I forget their _christian names_. Nor is this the
most amusing metamorphosis I have seen here. The transformation of two
heathen divinities into saints, is matched by the apotheosis of two
modern sovereigns into pagan deities. On the frieze of the _salle_,
adjoining the amphitheatre, there is a head of Napoleon, which, by the
addition of a beard, has been converted into a Jupiter; and on the
opposite side, a head of Josephine, which, being already beautiful and
dignified, has required no alteration, except in name, to become a
creditable Minerva.
_10th._--At the Brera, now called the "Palace of the Arts and
Sciences," we spent some delightful hours. There is a numerous
collection of pictures by Titian, Guido, Albano, Schidone, the three
Carraccis, Tintoretto, Giorgione, etc. Some old paintings in fresco,
by Luini and others of his age, were especially pointed out to us,
which had been cut from the walls of churches now destroyed. They are
preserved here, I presume, as curiosities, and specimens of the
progress of the arts, for they possess no other merit--none, at least,
that I could discover. Here is the "Marriage of the Virgin," by
Raffaelle, of which I had often heard. It disappointed me at the first
glance, but charmed me at the second, and enchanted me at the third.
The unobtrusive grace and simplicity of Raffaelle do not immediately
strike an eye so unpractised, and a taste so unformed as mine still
is: for though I have seen the best pictures in England, we have there
no opportunity of becoming acquainted with the two divinest masters of
the Italian art, Raffaelle and Correggio. There are not, I conceive,
half a dozen of either in all the collections together, and those we
do possess, are far from being among their best efforts. But Raffaelle
must not make me forget the Hagar in the Brera: the affecting--the
inimitable Hagar! what agony, what upbraiding, what love, what
helpless desolation of heart in that countenance! I may well remember
the deep pathos of this picture; for the face of Hagar has haunted me
sleeping and waking ever since I beheld it. Marvellous power of art!
that mere inanimate forms, and colours compounded of gross materials,
should thus live--thus speak--thus stand a soul-felt presence before
us, and from the senseless board or canvas, breathe into our hearts a
feeling, beyond what the most impassioned eloquence could ever
inspire--beyond what mere words can ever render.
Last night and the preceding we spent at the Scala. The opera was
stupid, and Madame Bellochi, who is the present primadonna, appeared
to me harsh and ungraceful, when compared to Fodor. The new ballet
however, amply indemnified us for the disappointment. Our Italian
friends condoled with us on being a few days too late to see _La
Vestale_, which had been performed for sixty nights, and is one of
Vigano's masterpieces. I thought the _Didone Abbandonata_ left us
nothing to regret. The immense size of the stage, the splendid
scenery, the classical propriety and magnificence of the dresses, the
fine music, and the exquisite acting (for there is very little
dancing), all conspired to render it enchanting. The celebrated cavern
scene in the fourth book of Virgil, is rather too closely copied in a
most inimitable pas de deux; so closely, indeed, that I was
considerably alarmed _pour les bienséances_; but little Ascanius, who
is asleep in a corner (Heaven knows how he came there), wakes at the
critical moment, and the impending catastrophe is averted. Such a
scene, however beautiful, would not, I think, be endured on the
English stage. I observed that when it began, the curtains in front of
the boxes were withdrawn, the whole audience, who seemed to be
expecting it, was hushed; the deepest silence, the most delighted
attention prevailed during its performance; and the moment it was
over, a third of the spectators departed. I am told this is always the
case; and that in almost every ballet d'action, the public are
gratified by a scene, or scenes, of a similar tendency.
The second time I saw the _Didone_, my attention, in spite of the
fascination of the scene, was attracted towards a box near us, which
was occupied by a noble English family just arrived at Milan. In the
front of the box sat a beautiful girl apparently not fifteen, with
laughing lips and dimpled cheeks, the very personification of
blooming, innocent, _English_ loveliness. I watched her (I could not
help it, when my interest was once awakened) through the whole scene.
I marked her increased agitation: I saw her cheeks flush, her eyes
glisten, her bosom flutter, as if with sighs I could not overhear,
till at length, overpowered with emotion, she turned away her head,
and covered her eyes with her hand. Mothers!--English mothers! who
bring your daughters abroad to finish their education--do you well to
expose them to scenes like these, and _force_ the young bud of early
feeling in such a precious hot-bed as this? Can a finer finger on the
piano,--a finer taste in painting, or any possible improvement in
foreign arts and foreign graces, compensate for one taint on that
moral purity, which has ever been (and may it ever be!) the boast,
the charm of Englishwomen? But what have I to do with all this?--I
came here to be amused and to forget;--not to moralize or to
criticise.
Vigano, who is lately dead, composed the _Didone Abbandonata_ as well
as _La Vestale_, Otello, Nina, and others. All his ballets are
celebrated for their classical beauty and interest. This man, though
but a dancing-master, must have had the soul of a painter, a musician,
and a poet in one. He must have been a perfect master of design,
grouping, contrast, picturesque, and scenic effect. He must have had
the most exquisite feeling for musical expression, to adapt it so
admirably to his purposes; and those gestures and movements with which
he has so gracefully combined it, and which address themselves but too
powerfully to the senses and the imagination--what are they, but the
very "poetry of motion," _la poésie mise en action_, rendering words a
superfluous and feeble medium in comparison?
I saw at the Mint yesterday the medal struck in honour of Vigano,
bearing his head on one side, and on the other, Prometheus chained; to
commemorate his famous ballet of that name. One of these medals,
struck in gold, was presented to him in the name of the government:--a
singular distinction for a dancing-master;--but Vigano was a
dancing-master of _genius_; and this is the land, where genius in
every shape is deified.
The enchanting music of the Prometteo by Beethoven, is well known in
England, but to produce the ballet on our stage, as it was exhibited
here, would be impossible. The entire tribe of our dancers and
figurantes, with their jumpings, twirlings, quiverings, and
pirouettings, must be first annihilated; and Vigano, or Didelot, or
Noverre rise again to inform the whole corps de ballet with another
soul and the whole audience with another spirit:--for
--"Poiche paga il volgo sciocco, è giusto
Scioccamente '_ballar_' per dargli gusto."
The Theatre of the Scala, notwithstanding the vastness of my
expectations, did not disappoint me. I heard it criticised as being
dark and gloomy; for only the stage is illuminated: but when I
remember how often I have left our English theatres with dazzled eyes
and aching head,--distracted by the multiplicity of objects and faces,
and "blasted with excess of light,"--I feel reconciled to this
peculiarity; more especially as it heightens beyond measure the
splendour of the stage effect.
We have the Countess Bubna's box while we are here. She scarcely ever
goes herself, being obliged to hold a sort of military drawing-room
almost every evening. Her husband, General Bubna, has the command of
the Austrian forces in the north of Italy: and though the Archduke
Reinier is nominal viceroy, all real power seems lodged in Bubna's
bands. He it was who suppressed the insurrection in Piedmont during
the last struggle for liberty: 'twas his vocation--more the pity.
Eight hundred of the Milanese, at the head of them Count Melzi, were
connected with the Carbonari and the Piedmontese insurgents. On Count
Bubna's return from his expedition, a list of these malcontents being
sent to him by the police, he refused even to look at it, and merely
saying that it was the business of the police to _surveiller_ those
persons, but _he_ must be allowed to be ignorant of their names,
publicly tore the paper. The same night he visited the theatre,
accompanied by Count Melzi, was received with acclamations, and has
since been deservedly popular.
Bubna is a heavy gross-looking man, a victim to the gout, and with
nothing martial or captivating in his exterior. He has talents,
however, and those not only of a military cast. He was generally
employed to arrange the affairs of the Emperor of Austria with
Napoleon. His loyalty to his own sovereign, and the soldier-like
frankness and integrity of his character, gained him the esteem of the
French emperor; who, when any difficulties occurred in their
arrangements, used to say impatiently--"Envoyez-moi donc Bubna!"
The count is of an illustrious family of Alsace, which removed to
Bohemia when that province was ceded to France. He had nearly ruined
himself by gambling, when the emperor (so it is said) advised him, or,
in other words, commanded him to marry the daughter of one Arnvelt or
Arnfeldt, a baptized Jew, who had been servant to a Jewish banker at
Vienna; and on his death left a million of florins to each of his
daughters. He was a man of the lowest extraction, and without any
education; but having sense enough to feel its advantages, he gave a
most brilliant one to his daughters. The Countess Bubna is an elegant,
an accomplished, and has the character of being also an amiable woman.
She is here a person of the very first consequence, the wife of the
archduke alone taking precedence of her. A propos of the viceroy, when
on the Corso to-day with the Countess Bubna, we met him with the
_vice-queen_, as she is styled, here, walking in public. The archduke
has not (as the countess observed) _la plus jolie tournure du monde_:
his appearance is heavy, awkward, and slovenly, with more than the
usual Austrian stupidity of countenance: a complete _testa tedesca_.
His beautiful wife, the Princess Maria of Savoy, to whom he has been
married only a few months, held his arm; and as she moved a little in
front, seemed to drag him after her like a mere appendage to her
state. I gazed after them, amused by the contrast: he looking like a
dull, stiff, old bachelor, the very figure of Moody in the Country
Girl;--she, an elegant, sprightly, captivating creature; decision in
her step, laughter on her lips, and pride, intelligence, and mischief
in her brilliant eyes.
* * * * *
We visited yesterday the military college, founded by the viceroy,
Eugene Beauharnois, for the children of soldiers who had fallen in
battle. The original design is now altered; and it has become a mere
public school, to which any boys may be admitted, paying a certain sum
a year. We went over the whole building, and afterwards saw the
scholars, two hundred and eighty in number, sit down to dinner. Every
thing appeared nice, clean, and admirably ordered. At the Mint, which
interested me extremely, we found them coining silver crowns for the
Levant trade, with the head of Maria Theresa, and the date 1780. We
were also shown the beautifully engraved die for the medal which the
university of Padua presented to Belzoni.
The evening was spent at the Teatro Re, where we saw a bad sentimental
comedy (una Commedia di Carattere) exceedingly well acted. One actor I
thought almost equal to Dowton, in his own style;--we had afterwards
some fine music. Some of the Milanese airs, which the itinerant
musicians give us, have considerable beauty and character. There is
less monotony, I think, in their general style than in the Venetian
music; and perhaps less sentiment, less softness. When left alone
to-night, to do penance on the sofa, for my late walks, and recruit
for our journey to-morrow,--I tried to adapt English verses to one or
two very pretty airs which Annoni brought me to-day, without the
Italian words; but it is a most difficult and invidious task. Even
Moore, with his unequalled command over the lyric harmonies of our
language, cannot perfectly satisfy ears accustomed to the
"Linked sweetness long drawn out"
of the Italian vowels, combined with musical sounds: fancy such
dissonant syllables as _ex_, _pray_, _what_, _breaks_, _strength_,
uttered in minim time, hissing and grating through half a bar, instead
of the dulcet _anima mia_, _Catina amabile_--_Caro mio tesoro_, etc.