beginning once more to be dear to me. How happy do I feel that I can
again venture to approach the ancient authors. For now, I may dare
tell it--and confess at once my disease and my folly. For many a long
year I could not bear to look at a Latin author, or to cast my eye
upon anything that might serve to awaken in my mind the thoughts of
Italy. If by accident I did so, I suffered the most horrible tortures
of mind. It was a frequent joke of Herder's at my expense, that I had
learned all my Latin from Spinoza, for he had noticed that this was
the only Latin work I ever read; but he was not aware how carefully I
was obliged to keep myself from the ancients--how even these abstruse
generalities were but cursorily read by me, and even then not without
pain. At last matters came to that pitch that even the perusal of
Wieland's translation of the Satires made me utterly wretched; scarcely
had I read two of them, before I was compelled to lay the book aside.
[Sidenote: Venice.]
Had I not made the resolve, which I am now carrying into effect, I
should have been altogether lost--to such a degree of intensity had
the desire grown to see these objects with my own eyes. Historical
acquaintance with them did me no good;--the things stood only a
hand's-breadth away from me; but still they were separated from me by
an impenetrable wall. And, in fact, at the present moment, I somehow
feel as if this were not the first time that I had seen these things,
but as if I were paying a second visit to them. Although I have been
but a short time in Venice, I have adapted myself pretty well to the
ways of the place, and feel confident that I shall carry away with me,
though a very incomplete, yet, nevertheless, clear and true idea of it.
* * * * *
_Venice, Oct._ 14, 1786. _2 o'clock, morning._
In the last moments of my stay here: for I am to start almost
immediately with the packet-boat for Ferrara. I quit Venice without
reluctance; for to stay here longer with any satisfaction and profit to
myself, I must take other steps which would carry me beyond my present
plan. Besides everybody is now leaving this city and making for the
beautiful gardens and seats on the Terra-Firma; I, however, go away
well-loaded, and shall carry along with me its rich, rare, and unique
image.
* * * * *
FROM FERRARA TO ROME.
_Oct._ 16, 1786. _Early and on board the packet._
My travelling companions, male and female alike, are all still fast
asleep in their berths. For my part I have passed the two nights on
deck, wrapped up in my cloak. It was only towards morning that I felt
it at all cold. I am now actually in latitude forty-five, and yet go on
repeating my old song: I would gladly leave all to the inhabitants of
the land, if only, after the fashion of Dido, I could enclose enough
of the heavens to surround our dwellings with. It would then be quite
another state of existence. The voyage in this glorious weather has
been most delightful, the views and prospects simple but agreeable.
The Po, with its fertilizing stream, flows here through wide plains;
nothing, however, is to be seen but its banks covered with trees or
bushes;--you catch no distant view. On this river, as on the Adige, are
silly water-works, which are as rude and ill-constructed as those on
the Saal.
* * * * *
_Ferrara, Oct._ 16, 1786. _At night._
Although I only arrived here early this morning (by 7 o'clock, German
time), I am thinking of setting off again to-morrow morning. For the
first time since I left home, a feeling of dissatisfaction has fallen
upon me in this great and beautiful, but flat and depopulated city.
These streets, now so desolate, were, however, once kept in animation
by a brilliant court. Here dwelt Ariosto discontented, and Tasso
unhappy, and so, we fancy, we gain edification by visiting such scenes.
Ariosto's monument contains much marble--ill arranged; for Tasso's
prison, they shew you a wood-house or coalhouse where, most assuredly,
he never was kept. Moreover, the people pretend to know scarcely
anything you may ask about. But at last for "something to drink" they
manage to remember. All this brings to my mind Luther's ink-spots,
which the housekeeper freshens up from time to time. Most travellers,
however, are little better than our "_Handwerksburschen_" or stolling
journeymen, and content themselves with such palpable signs. For my
part I became quite sulky, and took little interest even in a beautiful
institute and academy, which a cardinal, a native of Ferrara, founded
and endowed; however, some ancient monuments, in the Ducal Palace,
served to revive me a little; and I was put in perfect good humor by
a beautiful conception of a painter, John the Baptist before Herod
and Herodias. The prophet, in his well-known dress of the wilderness,
is pointing indignantly at Herodias. Quite unmoved, she looks at the
prince, who is sitting by her side, while the latter regards the
prophet with a calm but cunning look; a white middle-sized greyhound
stands before the king, while from beneath the robe of Herodias, a
small Italian one is peeping--both giving tongue at the prophet. To my
mind, this is a most happy thought.
* * * * *
[Sidenote: Ferrara-Cento]
_Cento, Oct._ 17, 1786.
In a better temper than yesterday, I write you to-day from Guercino's
native city. It, however, is quite a different place: an hospitable
well-built little town, of nearly 5000 inhabitants, flourishing, full
of life, cleanly, and situated in a well cultivated plain, which
stretches farther than the eye can reach. According to my usual custom,
I ascended the tower. A sea of poplars, between which, and near at
hand, one caught glimpses of little country-houses, each surrounded
by its fields. A rich soil and a beautiful climate. It was an autumn
evening, such as we seldom have to thank even summer for. The sky,
which had been veiled all day, has cleared up, the clouds rolling off
north and south towards the mountains, and I hope for a bright day
to-morrow.
Here I first saw the Apennines, which I am approaching. The winter
in this region lasts only through December and January: April is
rainy--for the rest of the year beautiful weather, according to the
nature of the season. Incessant rain is unknown. September here, to
tell you the truth, was finer and warmer than August with you. The
Apennines in the south have received a warm greeting from me, for I
have now had enough of the plain. To-morrow I shall be writing at the
foot of them.
Guercino loved his native town: indeed, the Italians almost universally
cherish and maintain this sort of local patriotism, and it is to this
beautiful feeling that Italy owes so many of its valuable institutions
and its multitude of local sanctuaries. Under the management of this
master, an academy of painting was formed here. He left behind him
many paintings, which his townsmen are still very proud of, and which,
indeed, fully justify their pride.
Guercino is here a sacred name, and that, too, in the mouths of
children as well as of the old.
Most charmed was I with his picture, representing the risen Lord,
appearing to his mother. Kneeling before Him, she looks upon Him with
indescribable affection. Her left hand is touching His body just under
the accursed wound which mars the whole picture. His hand lies upon her
neck; and in order the better to gaze upon her, his body is slightly
bent back. This gives to His figure a somewhat strange, not to say
forced appearance. And yet for all that it is infinitely beautiful. The
calm and sad look, with which He contemplates her, is unique and seems
to convey the impression that before His noble soul there still floats
a remembrance of His own sufferings and of hers, which the resurrection
had not at once dispelled.
_Strange_ has engraved the picture. I wish that my friends could see
even his copy of it.
After it a Madonna won my admiration. The child wants the breast; she
modestly shrinks from exposing her bosom. Natural, noble, exquisite,
and beautiful.
Further, a Mary, who is guiding the arm of the infant Christ, standing
before her with His face towards the people, in order that with
uplifted fingers He may bestow His blessings upon them. Judged by the
spirit of the Roman Catholic legends, this must be pronounced a very
happy idea. It has been often repeated.
Guercino is an intrinsically bold, masculine, sensible painter, without
roughness. On the contrary, his pieces possess a certain tender moral
grace, a reposeful freedom and grandeur, but with all that, a certain
mannerism, so that when the eye once has grown accustomed to it, it is
impossible to mistake a piece of his hand. The lightness, cleanness,
and finish of his touch are perfectly astonishing. For his draperies
he is particularly fond of a beautiful brownish-red blend of colours.
These harmonize very well with the blue which he loves to combine with
them.
[Sidenote: Bologna.]
The subjects of the other paintings are more or less unhappily chosen.
The good artist has strained all his powers, but his invention and
execution alike are thrown away and wasted. However, I derived both
entertainment and profit from the view of this cycle of art, although
such a hasty and rapid glance as I could alone bestow upon them,
affords but little, either of gratification or instruction.
* * * * *
_Bologna, Oct._ 18, 1786. _Night._
Yesterday I started very early--before daybreak--from Cento, and
arrived here in pretty good time. A brisk and well-educated cicerone
having learned that I did not intend to make a long stay here, hurried
me through all the streets, and into so many palaces and churches that
I had scarcely time to set down in my note-book the names of them, and
I hardly know if hereafter, when I shall look again at these scrawls, I
shall be able to call to mind all the particulars. I will now mention,
however, a couple or so of objects which stand out bright and clear
enough as they afforded me a real gratification at the time.
First of all the Cecilia of Raphael! It was exactly what I had been
told of it; but now I saw it with my own eyes. He has invariably
accomplished that which others wished in vain to accomplish, and I
would at present say no more of it than that it is by him. Five saints,
side by side, not one of them has anything in common with us; however
their existence, stands so perfectly real that one would wish for the
picture to last through eternity, even though for himself he could be
content to be annihilated. But in order to understand Raphael aright,
and to form a just appreciation of him, and not to praise him as a god
or as Melchisedec "without descent" or pedigree, it is necessary to
study his masters and his predecessors. These, too, had a standing
on the firm soil of truth; diligently, not to say anxiously, they had
laid the foundation, and vied with each other in raising, step by step,
the pyramid aloft, until, at last, profiting by all their labors, and
enlightened by a heavenly genius, Raphael set the last stone on the
summit, above which, or even at which, no one else can ever stand.
Our interest in the history of art becomes peculiarly lively when we
consider the works of the old masters. _Francesco Francia_ is a very
respectable artist. Pietro Perugino, so bold a man that one might
almost call him a noble German fellow. Oh that fate had carried Albert
Dürer further into Italy. In Munich I saw a couple of pieces by him of
incredible grandeur. The poor man, how did he mistake his own worth in
Venice, and make an agreement with the priests, on which he lost weeks
and months! See him in his journey through the Netherlands exchanging
his noble works of art for parrots, and in order to save his "douceur,"
drawing the portraits of the domestics, who bring him--a plate of
fruit. To me the history of such a poor fool of an artist is infinitely
touching.
Towards evening I got out of this ancient, venerable, and learned
city, and extricated myself from its crowds, who, protected from the
sun and weather by the arched bowers which are to be seen in almost
every street, walk about, gape about, or buy, and sell, and transact
whatever business they may have. I ascended the tower and enjoyed
the pure air. The view is glorious! To the north we see the hills of
Padua; beyond them the Swiss, Tyrolese, and Friulian Alps; in short,
the whole northern chain, which, at the time, was enveloped in mist.
Westward there stretched a boundless horizon, above which the towers
of Modena alone stood out. Towards the east a similar plain reaching
to the shores of the Adriatic, whose waters might be discerned in the
setting sun. Towards the south, the first hills of the Apennines,
which, like the Vicentine Hills, are planted up to their summits,
or covered with churches, palaces, and summer-houses. The sky was
perfectly clear, not a cloud to be seen, only on the horizon a kind of
haze. The keeper of the tower assured me that for six years this mist
had never left the distance. Otherwise, by the help of a telescope,
you might easily discern the hills of Vicenza, with their houses and
chapels, but now very rarely, even on the brightest days. And this mist
lay chiefly on the Northern Chain, and makes our beloved Fatherland
a regular Cimmeria. In proof of the salubrity of the situation and
pure atmosphere of the city, he called my notice to the fact, that the
roofs of the houses looked quite fresh, and that not a single tile
was attacked by damp or moss. It must be confessed that the tiles
look quite clean, and beautiful enough, but the good quality of the
brick-earth may have something to do with this; at least we know that,
in ancient times, excellent tiles were made in these parts.
[Sidenote: Bologna.]
The leaning tower has a frightful look, and yet it is most probable
that it was built so by design. The following seems to me the
explanation of this absurdity. In the disturbed times of the city every
large edifice was a fortress, and every powerful family had its tower.
By and bye the possession of such a building became a mark of splendour
and distinction, and as, at last, a perpendicular tower was a common
and every-day tiling, an oblique one was built. Both architect and
owner have obtained their object; the multitude of slender, upright
towers are just looked at, and all hurry to see the leaning one.
Afterwards I ascended it. The bricks are all arranged horizontally.
With clamps and good cement one may build any mad whim.
* * * * *
_Bologna, Oct._ 19, 1786.
I have spent this day to the best advantage I could in visiting and
revisiting; but it is with art as with the world: the more we study
it the larger we find it. In this heaven new stars are constantly
appearing which I cannot count, and which sadly puzzle me; the
Carracci, a Guido, a Domenichino, who shone forth in a later and
happier period of art, but truly to enjoy whom requires both knowledge
and judgment which I do not possess, and which cannot be acquired in a
hurry. A great obstacle to our taking a pure delight in their pictures,
and to an immediate understanding of their merits, is the absurd
subjects of most of them. To admire or to be charmed with them one must
be a madman.
It is as though the sons of God had wedded with the daughters of men,
and out of such an union many a monster had sprung into existence. No
sooner are you attracted by the _gusto_ of a Guido and his pencil, by
which nothing but the most excellent objects the eye sees are worthy
to be painted, but you, at once, withdraw your eyes from a subject so
abominably stupid that the world has no term of contempt sufficient to
express its meanness; and so it is throughout. It is ever anatomy--an
execution--a flaying scene-always some suffering, never an action of
the hero-never an interest in the scene before you-always something for
the fancy--some excitement accruing from without. Nothing but deeds of
horror or convulsive sufferings, malefactors or fanatics, along side
of whom the artist, in order to save his art, invariably slips in a
naked boy or a pretty damsel as a spectator, in every case treating his
spiritual heroes as little better than lay-figures (_gliedermanner_),
on which to hang some beautiful mantle with its folds. In all there is
nothing that suggests a human notion! Scarcely one subject in ten that
ever ought to have been painted, and that one the painter has chosen to
view from any but the right point of view.
Guido's great picture in the Church of the Mendicants is all that
painting can do, but, at the same time, all that absurdity could task
an artist with. It is a votive piece. I can well believe that the whole
consistory praised it, and also devised it. The two angels, who were
fit to console a Psyche in her misery, must here ....
The S. Proclus is a beautiful figure, but the others--bishops and
popes! Below are heavenly children playing with attributes. The
painter, who had no choice left him, laboured to help himself as
best he could. He exerted himself merely to show that he was not the
barbarian. Two naked figures by Guido; a St. John in the Wilderness; a
Sebastian, how exquisitely painted, and what do they say? the one is
gaping and the other wriggling.
Were I to contemplate history in my present ill humor, I should say,
Faith revived art, but Superstition immediately made itself master of
it, and ground it to the dust.
After dinner, seeming somewhat of a milder temper and less arrogantly
disposed than in the morning, I entered the following remarks in my
note-book. In the palace of the Tanari there is a famous picture by
Guido, the Virgin suckling the infant Saviour--of a size rather larger
than life--the head as if a god had painted it,--indescribable is the
expression with which she gazes upon the sucking infant. To me it seems
a calm, profound resignation, as if she were nourishing not the child
of her joy and love, but a supposititious, heavenly changeling; and
goes on suckling it because now she cannot do otherwise, although, in
deep humility, she wonders how she ever came to do it. The rest of the
canvass is filled up with a mass of drapery which connoisseurs highly
prize. For my part I know not what to make of it. The colours, too, are
somewhat dim; the room and the day were none of the brightest.
Notwithstanding the confusion in which I find myself I yet feel that
experience, knowledge, and taste, already come to my aid in these
mazes. Thus I was greatly won by a "Circumcision" by Guercino, for I
have begun to know and to understand the man. I can now pardon the
intolerable subject and delight in the masterly execution. Let him
paint whatever can be thought of, everything will be praiseworthy and
as highly finished as if it were enamel.
[Sidenote: Bologna.]
And thus it happened with me as with Balaam the over-ruled prophet, who
blessed where he thought to curse; and I fear this would be the case
still oftener were I to stay here much longer.
And then, again, if one happens to meet with a picture after Raphael,
or what may with at least some probability be ascribed to him, one is
soon perfectly cured and in good temper again. I fell in yesterday with
a S. Agatha, a rare picture, though not throughout in good keeping. The
artist has given to her the mien of a young maiden full of health and
self-possession, but yet without rusticity or coldness. I have stamped
on my mind both her form and look, and shall mentally read before her
my "Iphigenia," and shall not allow my heroine to express a sentiment
which the saint herself might not give utterance to.
And now when I think again of this sweet burden which I carry with
me throughout my wanderings, I cannot conceal the fact that, besides
the great objects of nature and art, which I have yet to work my way
through, a wonderful train of poetical images keeps rising before me
and unsettling me. From Cento to this place I have been wishing to
continue my labors on the Iphigenia, but what has happened? inspiration
has brought before my mind the plan of an "Iphigenia at Delphi," and
I must work it out. I will here set down the argument as briefly as
possible.
Electra, confidently hoping that Orestes will bring to Delphi the image
of the Taurian Diana, makes her appearance in the Temple of Apollo,
and as a final sin-offering dedicates to the god, the axe which has
perpetrated so many horrors in the house of Pelops. Unhappily she is,
at this moment, joined by a Greek, who recounts to her how, having
accompanied Pylades and Orestes to Tauris, he there saw the two friends
led to execution, but had himself luckily made his escape. At this news
the passionate Electra is unable to restrain herself, and knows not
whether to vent her rage against the gods or against men.
In the mean time Iphigenia, Orestes, and Pylades have arrived at
Delphi. The heavenly calmness of Iphigenia contrasts remarkably with
the earthly vehemence of Electra, as the two sisters meet without
knowing each other. The fugitive Greek gains sight of Iphigenia, and
recognizing in her the priestess, who was to have sacrificed the two
friends, makes it known to Electra. The latter snatching the axe from
the altar, is on the point of killing Iphigenia, when a happy incident
averts this last fearful calamity from the two sisters. This situation,
if only I can succeed in working it out well, will probably furnish
a scene unequalled for grandeur or pathos by any that has yet been
produced on the stage. But where is man to get time and hands for such
a work, even if the spirit be willing.
As I feel myself at present somewhat oppressed with such a flood of
thoughts of the good and desirable, I cannot help reminding my friends
of a dream which I had about a year ago, and which appeared to me to be
highly significant. I dreamt forsooth, that I had been sailing about
in a little boat and had landed on a fertile and richly cultivated
island, of which I had a consciousness that it bred the most beautiful
pheasants in the world. I bargained, I thought, with the people of the
island for some of these birds, and they killed and brought them to
me in great numbers. They were pheasants indeed, but as in dreams all
things are generally changed and modified, they seemed to have long,
richly coloured tails, like the loveliest birds of Paradise, and with
eyes like those of the peacock. Bringing them to me by scores, they
arranged them in the boat so skilfully with the heads inwards, the long
variegated feathers of the tail hanging outwards, as to form in the
bright sunshine the most glorious pile conceivable, and so large as
scarcely to leave room enough in the bow and the stern for the rower
and the steersman. As with this load the boat made its way through the
tranquil waters, I named to myself the friends among whom I should
like to distribute those variegated treasures. At last, arriving in
a spacious harbour, I was almost lost among great and many masted
vessels, as I mounted deck after deck in order to discover a place
where I might safely run my little boat ashore.
Such dreamy visions have a charm, inasmuch, as springing from our
mental state, they possess more or less of analogy with the rest of our
lives and fortunes.
* * * * *
But now I have also been to the famed scientific building, called the
Institution or "Gli Studj." The edifice is large, and the inner court
especially has a very imposing appearance, although not of the best
style of architecture. In the staircases and corridors there was no
want of stuccoes and frescoes: they are all appropriate and suitable,
and the numerous objects of beauty, which, well worth seeing, are
here collected together, justly command our admiration. For all that,
however, a German, accustomed to a more liberal course of study than is
here pursued, will not be altogether content with it.