Tremezzo, a village adjoining Cadenabbia on the south. Its chief beauty
lies in the garden, filled with a profusion of plants of every
variety--roses, camellias, azaleas, magnolias, oranges, lilies--all
arranged in charming walks, with here and there a vista of the lake and
Bellagio in the distance, reflecting the bright sunlight from its white
walls. Above are the woods and the little round table overlooking the
water, where we began our survey of the Larian shores. The interior
contains a large collection of sculptures, but most visitors remember
only two pieces,--Thorwaldsen's "Triumphant Entry into Babylon of
Alexander the Great," and Canova's lovely "Cupid and Psyche."
After seeing some of these palaces merely as tourists, and learning the
history of others of an earlier day, particularly the homes described by
Pliny, we could not help wishing to see an Italian palace which is not a
show place but a home, and typical of modern life on the shores of this
wonderful lake, for so many centuries sought by men of wealth as the
place where they could realize their dreams of comfort and delight.
The opportunity of gratifying this desire came sooner than we expected.
We had started one morning to make a call at the summer home of Mrs.
Humphry Ward, who had leased the Villa Bonaventura for a season.
Mistaking the directions, we entered the gate of the Villa Maria, a
large house in the classical lines of the Italian Renaissance, standing
high above the road and reached by winding paths through a garden of
surpassing loveliness. Our ring was answered by the Italian butler, who
in response to our inquiries nodded pleasantly, not understanding a word
we said, and disappeared. In a few moments we were most cordially
greeted by an American gentleman, who assured us he was delighted to see
us, and would be happy to show us the villa. In another moment, and
before we could make explanations, another ring of the doorbell
announced two other callers, who, as it happened, were really expected
at the hour of our arrival, by invitation to see the villa. We had made
a mistake, and in turn had been mistaken for two other people, but our
friendly host insisted that we, too, should see his beautiful home.
[Illustration: THE ATRIUM OF THE VILLA MARIA]
We were standing in the atrium before a large marble vase--a restoration
of the so-called Gaeta vase, by Salpion, a Greek sculptor of the time of
Praxiteles. The original was thrown into the Bay of Gaeta, where for
centuries it remained partially embedded in the mud. The fishermen of
many generations used it as a convenient post for mooring their boats,
and did much damage with their ropes. It was finally rescued and taken
to a church for use as a baptismal font, and later transferred to the
Naples Museum. The theme of the vase is the presentation of the infant
Bacchus, by Mercury, to one of the Nymphs--a favorite subject with
ancient sculptors. Mr. Haines, our courteous host, was justly proud of
this--the first complete restoration of this beautiful work of art. The
decoration of the atrium, including the eight lunettes, as well as of
the entire villa, are by the hand of Pogliaghi, who now stands at the
head of the Lombard decorators. He is the young sculptor who in 1895 was
commissioned to design the magnificent bronze doors of the Cathedral
of Milan, a work requiring seven years.
One striking feature of the villa is its harmony of color. Glance out
the doorway, from the atrium across the lake, or from the dining-room
toward Menaggio, or through the library windows into the garden, and
everywhere you see the blue Italian sky, the brown of the distant
mountains, the green of the freshly budding trees, the sparkle of the
lake, and the brilliant tints of the camellias, hyacinths, and
cineraria, combining to make a scene of splendor rarely equaled in this
good old world of ours. Then, glancing back into the rooms of the villa,
you find the same tints and shadings in the walls and ceilings, the
paintings, tapestries, and upholstery. Perfect harmony with Nature at
her best seems to have been Pogliaghi's motive.
Passing to the right of the atrium, we entered the music saloon,
decorated and furnished in the style of Louis XIV, a large and beautiful
room, noteworthy, not only for its acoustic properties, but also for
extreme richness and harmony of design and color. An arched opening
reveals a portion of a fine piece of tapestry by Giulio Romano, dating
from the sixteenth century, which covers the rear wall of the
dining-room. This tapestry, formerly owned by the Duke of Modena, is a
representation of the old Greek legend of the presentation of Bacchus,
the same theme as that of the Gaeta vase. Indeed, it was the possession
of this tapestry which suggested to Mr. Haines the idea of obtaining a
restoration of the famous vase. A striking feature of the dining-room is
the frieze of Poliaghi representing young Bacchantes in the midst of
fruit and flowers, so cleverly painted that it seems to be done in high
relief, completely deceiving the eye.
On the left of the atrium is the library, with two life-size portraits
by De La Gandara, one of Mr. Haines and the other of his wife. Mrs.
Haines was an accomplished musician as well as an enthusiastic collector
of works of art. The Villa Maria was designed by her as a fitting shrine
for her valuable collections as well as with a view to musical
entertainments. Since her death, in 1899, Mr. Haines, with equal
enthusiasm and taste, has added to the collections and improved the
villa. His study is in the rear of the library. Its distinguishing
feature is a life-size portrait of the children of Catherine de Medici,
by Federico Zuccheri. This painting is seven hundred years old, but the
colors are still fresh, and although life-size it has the exactness of a
miniature. It was formerly in the Borghese collection.
Ascending the marble stairway we were ushered into the "Porcelain" room,
containing the most unique and valuable portion of the art treasures of
the villa. There are four cabinets in the style of Louis XV, containing
what is probably the best collection to be found in Europe of rare
Ancienne, Porcelain de Saxe, Old Chelsea, Nymphenberg, Dresden, Meissen,
Ludwigsburg, and Sevres pieces in endless variety and bewildering
richness of design. There are fans painted by Nicolas Poussin, and
others by French and Italian artists of the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries. There is a fine portrait of the Duchess de Chevreuse by La
Guilliere and an original painting of Louis le Grand by Le Fevre. A rare
clock of the period of Louis XV, made about 1750, with miniature
allegorical paintings, surrounded by pearls, stands upon a Louis XIV
desk, ornamented with elaborate carved bronzes by Reisinger. On either
side of the clock is a fine old Bohemian vase, while near by is a
miniature of Napoleon by Isabey. The decoration of the room is completed
by a fine old piece of Gobelin tapestry, bearing the signature of
Boucher and the date 1747, originally presented by Louis XV to one of
the queens of Spain.
These are a few of the treasures shown to us in a very brief visit to
the Villa Maria. The enthusiasm of its owner for art goes hand in hand
with a love of nature. If the interior decorations have been done with
the eye of a discriminating artist, no less has the exterior received
the same careful attention. The fine fountain, just within the gates,
the flower-beds with their well-harmonized tints, the olives and
cypresses, the camellias, the cherry tree in full blossom, all add their
charm to a view which would be unsurpassed even without their aid. For
the villa is situated at one of the loveliest points on beautiful Como,
commanding on all sides a panorama of distant mountains, with here and
there a snow-capped peak, of peaceful water glistening in the warm April
sun, of little white villages dotting the shores of the lake, of quaint
little chapels in nooks and corners of the mountains, of peach trees and
almonds adding a touch of pink to the landscape, of blue skies and
fleecy clouds surmounting the whole like a brilliant canopy. No wonder
that our genial host, after showing all the beauties of his palace,
stood by the open window and waving his hand exclaimed, "I call this my
J. M. W. Turner." But the window framed a lovelier work of art than the
hand of man will ever paint.
[Illustration: "I CALL THIS MY J. M. W. TURNER"]
VII
LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND
VII
LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND
The quest for literary landmarks is always a fascinating pursuit,
particularly to the amateur photographer who likes to take pictures that
mean something. I have always found a certain exhilaration in seeing for
myself and reproducing photographically the places made memorable by
some favorite author. To look into the ground glass of my camera and see
the reflected image of some lovely scene that has been an inspiration to
poet or novelist, is like suddenly coming into possession of a prize
that had ever before been thought unattainable. It brings the author of
a by-gone generation into one's own time. It deepens the previous
enjoyment--makes it more real. When I stand before the house in which
some great author has lived, I seem to see more than a mere dwelling.
The great man himself comes out to meet me, invites me in, shows me his
study, presents me to his wife and children, walks with me in his
garden, tells me how the surroundings of his home have influenced his
literary work, and finally sends me away with a peculiar sense of
intimacy. I go home, reach out my hand for a certain neglected book on
my shelves, and lo! it opens as with a hidden spring, a new light glows
upon its pages, and I find myself absorbed in conversation with a
friend.
I
CONCORD
For this kind of hunting I know of no better place in America than New
England, and no better town in which to begin than the sleepy old
village of Concord, twenty miles northwest of Boston. On the occasion of
a recent visit, we walked out Monument Street and made our first stop at
a point in the road immediately opposite the "Old Manse." A party of
school-children were just entering. Had we been looking at the grove on
the hillside, at the opposite end of the town, where Hawthorne used to
walk to and fro, composing the "Tanglewood Tales," we might have
supposed they had come to catch a few echoes of the famous
story-teller's voice, and I should have made a photograph with the
children in it. But here they did not seem so appropriate, and we waited
until they had gone. When all was quiet again, it did not require a very
vigorous imagination to look down the vista of black-ash trees seen
between the "two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone," and fancy a man
and woman walking arm in arm down the avenue toward the weather-stained
old parsonage, its dark sides scarcely visible beneath the shadows of
the overarching trees. The man is of medium height, broad-shouldered,
and walks with a vigorous stride, suggesting the bodily activity of a
young athlete. His hair is dark, framing with wavy curves a forehead
both high and broad. Heavy eyebrows overhang a pair of dark blue eyes,
that seem to flash with wondrous expressiveness, as he bends slightly to
speak to the little woman at his side. His voice is low and deep, and
she responds to what he is saying with an upward glance of her soft gray
eyes and a happy smile that clearly suggest the sunshine which she is
destined to throw into his life.
Thus Nathaniel Hawthorne and Sophia Peabody, his bride, on a day in
July, 1842, passed into the gloomy old house where they were to begin
their honeymoon. I say "begin" because it was not like the ordinary
honeymoon that ends abruptly on the day the husband first proposes to go
alone on a fishing excursion. Nor was it like that of a certain "colored
lady" whom I once knew. On the day following the wedding she left
William to attend to his usual duties in the stable and the garden while
she started on a two weeks' "honeymoon" trip to her old Virginia home,
explaining afterward that she "couldn't afford to take dat fool niggah
along, noway."
[Illustration: THE OLD MANSE]
The Hawthorne honeymoon was one of that rare kind which begins with the
wedding bells and has no ending. They were married lovers all their
days. Hawthorne had seen enough of solitariness in his bachelorhood
to appreciate the rare companionship of his gifted wife, and he wanted
nothing more. The dingy old parsonage was a Paradise to them and the new
Adam and Eve invited no intrusions into their Eden. Some of their
friends came occasionally, it is true, but Hawthorne records that during
the next winter the snow in the old avenue was marked by no footsteps
save his own for weeks at a time. And his loving wife, though she had
come from the midst of a large circle of friends, found only happiness
in sharing this solitude.
During the three years in which Hawthorne lived in this "Old Manse," he
seldom walked through the village, was known to but few of his
neighbors, never went to the town-meeting, and not often to church,
though he lived in a house that had been built by a minister and
occupied by ministers so long that "it was awful to reflect how many
sermons must have been written there."
Let us peep through the windows of the parlor at the end of the dark
avenue and indulge in another flight of fancy. It is an unusual day at
the Manse, for two visitors have called to greet the new occupant. The
elder of the two, a man in his fortieth year, is Ralph Waldo Emerson,
who lives in the other end of the town in a large, comfortable, and
cheery house, which we expect to see a little later. He knows the Old
Manse well. His grandfather built it shortly before the outbreak of the
Revolution and witnessed the battle of Concord from a window in the
second story. This good man, who was the Revolutionary parson of the
village, died in 1776 at the early age of thirty-three, and a few years
later his widow married the Reverend Ezra Ripley, who maintained, for
more than sixty years, the reputation of the Manse as a producer of
sermons, being succeeded by his son, Samuel, also a minister. In
October, 1834, Emerson came there with his mother and remained a year,
during which he wrote his first, and one of his greatest essays,
"Nature."
The other visitor is Henry D. Thoreau, a young man of twenty-five, then
living with the Emersons. The two guests and their host are sitting bolt
upright in stiff-backed chairs. The host speaks scarcely a word except
to ask, for the sake of politeness, a few formal questions, which
Thoreau answers with equal brevity. Emerson alone talks freely, but his
words, however much weighted with wisdom, are those of a monologuist and
do not beget conversation. Yet there is something in the manner of all
three that seems to betray the unspoken thought. Hawthorne's observing
eyes seem to be saying, "So this is Emerson, the man who, they say, is
drawing all kinds of queer and oddly dressed people to this quiet little
village,--visionaries, theorists, men and women who think they have
discovered a new thought, and come to him to see if it is genuine.
Perhaps he might help solve some of my problems. What a pure,
intellectual gleam seems to be diffused about him! With what full and
sweet tones he speaks and how persuasively! How serene and tranquil he
seems! How reposeful, as though he had adjusted himself, with all
reverence, to the supreme requirements of life! Yet I am not sure I can
trust his philosophy. Let me admire him as a poet and a true man, but I
shall ask him no questions."
Then while Thoreau is talking, Emerson gazes at Hawthorne and reflects:
"This man's face haunts me. His manner fascinates me. I talk to him and
his eyes alone answer me; and yet this seems sufficient. He does not
echo my thoughts. He has a mind all his own. He says so little that I
fear I talk too much. Yet he is a greater man than his words betray. I
have never found pleasure in his writings, yet I cannot help admiring
the man. Some day I hope to know him better. I have much to learn from
him."
Meanwhile Hawthorne's gaze has turned upon the younger visitor. "What a
wild creature he seems! How original! How unsophisticated! How ugly he
is, with his long nose and queer mouth. Yet his manners are courteous
and even his ugliness seems honest and agreeable. I understand he
drifts about like an Indian, has no fixed method of gaining a
livelihood, knows every path in the woods and will sit motionless beside
a brook until the fishes, and the birds, and even the snakes will cease
to fear his presence and come back to investigate him. He is a poet,
too, as well as a scientist, and I am sure has the gift of seeing Nature
as no other man has ever done. Some day I must walk with him in the
woods."
Every man in the room loves freedom, and hates conventionalities. The
ordinary formalities of polite society are unendurable. Therefore the
four walls seem oppressive and the straight-back chairs produce an
agonizing tension of the nerves. They are all glad when the call is
over.
[Illustration: WALDEN WOODS]
Now let the scene change. It is winter and the river behind the house is
frozen. In the glory of the setting sun, its surface seems a smooth sea
of transparent gold. The edges of the stream are bordered with fantastic
draperies, hanging from the overarching trees in strange festoons of
purest white. Once more our three friends appear, but the four walls are
gone and the wintry breeze has blown away all constraint. All three
lovers of the open air are now on skates. Thoreau circles about
skillfully in a bewildering series of graceful curves, for he is an
expert at this form of sport and thinks nothing of skating up the river
for miles in pursuit of a fox or other wild creature. Emerson finds
it harder; he leans forward until his straight back seems to parallel
the ice and frequently returns to the shore to rest. Hawthorne, if we
may recall the words of his admiring wife, moves "like a self-impelled
Greek statue, stately and grave," as though acting a part in some
classic drama, yet fond of the sport and apparently indefatigable in its
pursuit.
Once more let the scene change. Summer has come again. The icy
decorations have given place to green boughs and rushes and meadow-grass
which seem to be trying to crowd the river into narrower quarters. A
small boat is approaching the shore in the rear of the old house. In the
stern stands a young man who guides the craft as though by instinct.
With scarcely perceptible motions of the single paddle, he makes it go
in whatsoever direction he wills, as though paddling were only an act of
the mind. The boat is called the Musketaquid, after the Indian name of
the river. Its pilot, who is also its builder, quickly reaches the
shore, and we recognize the man of Nature, Thoreau. Hawthorne, who has
been admiring both the boat and steersman, now steps aboard and the two
friends are soon moving slowly among the lily-pads that line the margin
of the river. Hawthorne is rowing. He handles the oars with no great
skill, and as for paddling, it would be impossible for him to make the
boat answer _his_ will. Thoreau plucks from the water a white pond-lily,
and remarks that "this delicious flower opens its virgin bosom to the
first sunlight and perfects its being through the magic of that genial
kiss." He says he has "beheld beds of them unfolding in due succession
as the sunrise stole gradually from flower to flower"; and this leads
Hawthorne to reflect that such a sight is "not to be hoped for unless
when a poet adjusts his inward eye to a proper focus with the outward
organ." We fancy that under these conditions their talk "gushed like the
babble of a fountain," as Hawthorne said it did when he went fishing
with Ellery Channing.
But we must not linger at the gate of the Old Manse indulging these
dreams, for we have other pleasures in store. A hundred yards beyond, we
turn into the bit of road, at right angles with the highway, now
preserved because it was the scene of the famous Concord fight. A
beautiful vista is made by the overarching of trees that have grown up
since the battle, and in the distance we see the Monument, the Bridge,
and the "Minute Man." The Monument marks the spot where the British
soldiers stood and opened fire on the 19th of April, 1775, while the
"Minute Man" stands at the place where the Americans received their
order to return the fire. The Monument was dedicated on the sixty-first
anniversary of the battle, Emerson offering his famous "Concord Hymn,"
the opening stanza of which, thirty-nine years later, was carved on the
pedestal of the Minute Man, erected in commemoration of the centennial
of the event:--
"By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world."
The bridge is of no significance. It is a recent structure of cement,
the wooden bridge over which the Minute Men charged having disappeared
more than a century ago.
Hawthorne took little interest in the battlefield, though he did express
a desire to open the graves of the two nameless British soldiers, who
lie buried by the roadside, because of a tale that one of them had been
killed by a boy with an axe--a fiendish yarn which we may be glad is not
authenticated. The great romancer confessed that the field between the
battlefield and his house interested him far more because of the Indian
arrow-heads and other relics he could pick up there--a trick he had
learned from Thoreau.
On our way back to the village we made a turn to the left, for a visit
to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Never was such a place more appropriately
named. An elliptical bowl, bordered by grassy knolls, with flowering
shrubs and green groves, forms a perfect cradle among the hills in which
sleep generation after generation of the inhabitants of old Concord. On
the opposite side of the hollow, well up the slope of the hill and
shaded by many trees, we came to the graves of the Emersons, the
Thoreaus, and the Hawthornes, in neighborly proximity. The Emerson grave
seemed eminently satisfactory. A rough-hewn boulder at the foot of a
tall pine marks the resting-place of a strong, sincere, and
unpretentious character, who lived close to Nature. By his side lies
Lidian, his wife, with an inscription on her tombstone, which few,
perchance, stop to read, but which ought to be read by all who can
appreciate this rare tribute to a woman's worth:--
In her youth an unusual sense of
the Divine Presence was granted her
and she retained through life
the impress of that high Communion.
To her children she seemed in her
native ascendancy and unquestioning
courage, a Queen, a Flower in
elegance and delicacy.
The love and care for her husband and
children was her first earthly interest
but with overflowing compassion
her heart went out to the slave, the sick
and the dumb creation. She remembered
them that were in bonds as bound with them.
Thoreau's grave is not quite so satisfactory. It creates the impression
that the poet and naturalist who brought fame to his family was only
one of a considerable number of children and died in infancy with all
the rest. It is marked with a small headstone and the single name,
Henry. In the center of the lot a larger stone records the names of all
the members of the family who lie buried there.
The Hawthorne grave is wholly unsatisfactory. It is not easily found by
a stranger, even after careful directions. The small lot is inclosed by
an ugly fence, only partially concealed by a poorly kept hedge. By
making an effort one can peep through and see a simple headstone with
the name Hawthorne. The most conspicuous object in the inclosure is a
big sign warning the public not to pluck the leaves, etc., and ending
with the curt injunction, "Have respect for the living if not for the
dead." The unsightly fence and the rudeness of the sign clang
discordantly upon the sensibilities of those who have been taught to
admire the gracious hospitality and courteous disposition of the man. We
came to gaze reverently upon the grave of a man whom we had seemed to
know for many years as a personal friend, but found ourselves treated
with contempt as if we were merely vulgar seekers for useless souvenirs!
Let us get back to the village and see the things of life.