memory of the immortal poets, husband and wife, has passed into the
hands of strangers; but that is a part of the play in a world in which
we have no continuing city. In the spring of 1905, Miss Sarianna
Browning died in the home of her nephew, near Florence, and her body was
buried in the new Protestant cemetery in that city; the old one, where
all that was mortal of Elizabeth Barrett Browning was laid to rest,
being now closed. Mr. Barrett Browning, in his Tuscan villa, is again
dwelling near Florence, his native city, which must forever hold to him
its atmosphere of consecrated beauty as the beloved home of his
mother,--the noblest and greatest of all woman poets.
The centenary of Carlo Goldoni was celebrated in Venice in the spring
of 1907 by the publication of all his works and a monograph on his life;
an exhibition of personal relics; the presentation of one of his dramas
set to music by Baldassare Galuppi, the great Venetian composer of his
time, and by a procession to lay a wreath of laurel on his monument in
the Campo San Bartolommeo. The drama given, entitled the "Buranello,"
was the last work of the author, and it was presented in the theatre
Goldoni. The Municipal Council of Venice voted the sum of fifty thousand
lire for the _edition de luxe_, which consists of twenty volumes, in
octavo. In each volume is a different portrait of Goldoni, facsimile of
manuscripts, and the reproduction of literary curiosities.
The monograph of Goldoni was issued by the press of the Venetian
Institute of Graphic Art in a limited number of copies.
It contains more than three hundred printed pages and a series of very
interesting illustrations. Among these are the reproductions of ancient
engravings which are most rare (such as the view of the Grimani Theatre
at San Giovanni Crisostomo, a famous theatre existing in the days of the
Venetian republic, but now demolished), frontispieces of destroyed
editions, and other personal memorials. The revival of the splendid work
of the famous artist was one of the attractions of the festa of
celebration. The art exhibition of Venice in this spring of 1907 was
very picturesque. One special salon was allotted to the artists of Great
Britain, and there was a fine loan collection of the portraits of
English noblemen painted by Mr. Sargent. This salon was decorated with
panels by Frank Brangwyn.
Venice forever remains a dream, a mirage, an enchantment. Has it a
recognized social life, with "seasons" that come and go? Has it trade,
commerce, traffic? Has it any existence save on the artist's canvas, in
the poet's vision? Has it a resident population to whom it is a home,
and not the pilgrimage of passionate pilgrims?
There are those who find this Venice of all the year round a society of
stately nobles whose ancestral claims are identified with the history of
the city and who are at home in its palaces and gondolas, but of this
resident life the visitor is less aware than of that in any other city
in Italy. For him it remains forever in his memory as the crowning
glory of June evenings when the full, golden moon hangs over towers and
walls, when gondolas freighted with Venetian singers loom up out of the
shadows and fill the air with melody that echoes as in dreams, and that
vanishes--one knows not when or where. Mr. Howells, in his delightful
"Venetian Days," has interpreted much of that life that the tourist
never recognizes, that eludes his sight; and the Dream City still, to
the visitor who comes and goes, shrouds itself in myth and mystery. One
of the poetic visions of Venice is that given in Robert Underwood
Johnson's "Browning at Asolo" (inscribed to Mrs. Arthur Bronson), of
which the opening stanzas run:--
"This is the loggia Browning loved,
High on the flank of the friendly town;
These are the hills that his keen eye roved,
The green like a cataract leaping down
To the plain that his pen gave new renown.
"There to the West what a range of blue!--
The very background Titian drew
To his peerless Loves. O tranquil scene!
Who than thy poet fondlier knew
The peaks and the shore and the lore between?
"See! yonder's his Venice--the valiant Spire,
Highest one of the perfect three,
Guarding the others: the Palace choir,
The Temple flashing with opal fire--
Bubble and foam of the sunlit sea."
Edgar Fawcett, always enchanted with his Venetian days, pictures the
northern lagoon, some six miles from Venice, as "a revel of pastoral
greenness, with briery hedges, numberless wild flowers and the most
captivating of sinuous creeks, overarched by an occasional bridge, so
old that you greet with respect every moss-grown inch of its drowsy and
sagging brickwork. The cathedral, the ineludible cathedral of all
Italian settlements, is reached after a short ramble, and you enter it
with mingled awe and amusement," he continues. "Some of its mosaics,
representing martyrs being devoured by flames and evidently enjoying
themselves a great deal during this mortuary process, challenge the
disrespectful smile. But others are vested with a rude yet sacred
poetry, and certain semi-Oriental marble sculptures, adjacent to the
altar, would make an infidel feel like crossing himself for the crime of
having yielded to a humorous twinge. This duomo dates far back beyond
the Middle Ages, and so does the small Church of Santa Fosca, only a
step away. What renders Torcello so individual among all the islands and
islets of the lagoon, I should say, is her continual contrast between
the ever-recurrent idyllicism of open meadows or wilding clusters of
simple rustic thickets, and the enormous antiquity of these two hoary
ecclesiastic fanes. History is in the air, and you feel that the very
daisies you crush underfoot, the very copses from which you pluck a
scented spray, have their delicate rustic ancestries, dating back to
Attila, who is said once to have brought his destructive presence where
now such sweet solemnity of desertion and quietude unmolestedly rules."
History and legend and art and romance meet and mingle to create that
indefinable sorcery of Venice. It is like nothing on earth except a
poet's dream, and his poetic dream is of the ethereal realm. The
wonderful music that floats over the "silver trail" of still waters; the
mystic silences; the resplendence of color,--all, indeed, weave
themselves into an incantation of the gods; it is the ineffable
loveliness of Paradise where the rose of morning glows "and the June is
always June," and it is no more earth, but a celestial atmosphere,--this
glory of June in Venice.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] This inscription and a description in detail of all the memorials of
Elizabeth Barrett Browning are given in full in a volume entitled "A
Study of Elizabeth Barrett Browning." Boston: Little, Brown, & Co.
[4] "A Study of Elizabeth Barrett Browning." Little, Brown, & Co.
_Dear Italy! The sound of thy soft name
Soothes me with balm of Memory and Hope.
Mine, for the moment, height and sweep and slope
That once were mine. Supreme is still the aim
To flee the cold and gray
Of our December day,
And rest where thy clear spirit burns with unconsuming flame._
_Thou human-hearted land, whose revels hold
Man in communion with the antique days,
And summon him from prosy greed to ways
Where Youth is beckoning to the Age of Gold;
How thou dost hold him near
And whisper in his ear
Of the lost Paradise that lies beyond the alluring haze!_
ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.
_Great ideas create great peoples. Let your life be the living
summary of one sole organic idea. Enlarge the horizon of the
peoples. Liberate their conscience from the materialism by which it
is weighed down. Set a vast mission before them. Rebaptize them._
MAZZINI.
_All parts array for the progress of souls: all religion, all solid
things, arts, governments,--all that was or is apparent upon this
globe, or any globe, falls into niches and comes before the
procession of Souls along the grand roads of the universe.... Of
the progress of the souls of men and women along the grand roads of
the universe, all other progress is the needed emblem and
sustenance._
WALT WHITMAN.
VII
THE MAGIC LAND
More than five hundred years have passed over the country of Dante
since the death of his mortal part--years of glory and of shame, of
genius and intolerable mediocrity, of turbulent liberty and mortal
servitude; but the name of Dante has remained, and the severe image
of the poet still rules the destinies of Italian generations, now
an encouragement and now a reproach. The splendor of no other
genius has been able to eclipse or dim the grandeur of Dante; never
has there been a darkness so profound that it could conceal this
star of promise from Italian eyes; neither the profanations of
tyrants and Jesuits, nor the violations of foreign invaders, have
been able to efface it. "_Sanctum Poetae nomen quod nunquam
barbaries violavit._"
MAZZINI.
The true life of Italy is not read in any record of contemporary facts
or statistics. Mazzini once said of Dante, in an essay on the immortal
poet, that "the life, the true life of Dante does not lie in the series
of the material facts of his existence. The life of Dante consists in
the sufferings and aspirations of his soul; in its dominant impulses; in
the ceaseless development of the idea which was at once his guide,
inspiration, and consolation; in his belief as a man and as an Italian."
The real life of Italy is, by analogy, to be read in that atmosphere
of aspiration and of noble purpose which characterizes the nation rather
than in the material facts of its general progress at the present time.
As a country Italy is young. It is still less than forty years since her
unity was declared, and to merge the large number of separate States
into one harmonious whole is a task requiring the evolutionary progress
of time; for a nation, like a university, cannot be a matter of
instantaneous creation. It must germinate and grow. The country that,
previous to so comparatively a recent date as the year 1870, was, in the
phrasing of Prince Metternich, "a geographical expression," can hardly
be judged by present national standards after an existence of only
thirty-seven years, although it need be said in no spirit of apology;
for Italy is advancing in scientific development, in manufactures, and
in the problems involved in civil and hydraulic engineering to a notable
degree in the northern part. Milan and Naples are separated by far more
than geographical distance. In modern progress Milan is divided by
centuries from all Southern Italy.
Between Italy and the United States the _entente cordiale_ is not
merely that of diplomatic and ceremonial courtesy, but of an exceptional
degree of mutually sympathetic comprehensions. In noble ambitions and
lofty purposes Americans and Italians are closely akin. In zeal for
contemporary scientific progress, in an intense susceptibility to the
glories of art, and in hospitality to all that makes for progress, both
nations meet in mutual recognition. Of no people is it more deeply true
than of Americans that "each man has two countries: his own and Italy."
The average traveller sees this fair land with a breadth and
thoroughness seldom called into requisition elsewhere. In England he is
usually content with London, the tour of the cathedral towns and the
lake region of the poets. France is summed up to him in Paris and in the
chateaux of outlying districts. But Italy beguiles the traveller into
every lonely foot-trail in the mountains; to every "piazza grande" of
lonely hamlets, isolated on a rocky hillside; to every "fortezza" that
crowns a mountain summit. The unexplored byways of Italy are magnetic in
their fascination, and one special source of congratulation on the part
of those fortunate tourists who travel with their own motor car is that
they are thus enabled to penetrate into untrodden byways in Italy in a
manner impossible to those who must depend entirely on the regulation
railroad service. All lovers of Italy are devoted to these original
tours of private exploration. A recent trip to Saracinesco, in the
region of Tivoli, was made by Mrs. Stetson (Grace Ellery Channing) with
her husband, and in a descriptive record of the little journey into an
unfrequented mountain region this paragraph occurs:--
"Roused by 'an awful rose of dawn' which turned every solemn slope
to strange amber and amethyst, we left that rocky eyrie next day,
returning by way of Anticoli--beloved of artists. And if the ascent
had qualified us for Alpine climbers, the descent qualified us as
members of the Italian cavalry corps. Pictures of officers riding
down the face of cliffs will never impress us again; we know now it
is the very simplest of 'stunts.' Our way down was diversified by
the tinkling of thousands of sheep-bells, by the far too close
proximity of bulls to Maria's crimson headdress, which nothing in
the world would induce her to remove, and by sundry meetings with
relations, long-unseen friends, and strangers, from whom we culled
the whole register of deaths, births, marriages, and happenings for
a month past. At last, beside a little bridge near the railroad
station, Leonardo addressed his ten-thousandth adjuration to
Beppino, whose poor little legs trembled under him. It was no
longer, 'Ah, sacred one!--don't you see Anticoli!'--or 'the rock,'
or whatever it might be; now he said, 'Ah, sacred one!--don't you
comprehend?--the Signora descends'--and Beppino looked distinctly
pleased.
"Here we demanded the reckoning, skilfully evaded hitherto.
"'Well--a franc for each beast,--and half a franc for the
room,--the rest was nothing--a _sciocchezza_.'
"A franc apiece!--half a franc!--were _we_ brigands that we should
do this thing?"
This typical picture of idyllic days in Italy, enjoyed in the impromptu
excursion and trip, reveals the delicacy of feeling and the sunny
kindness that characterize the _contadini_ and which imparts to any
social contact with them a grace and sweetness peculiar to Italian
life. There are parts of Italy where it is still the Middle Ages and no
hint of the twentieth century has yet penetrated. The modern spirit has
almost taken possession of Rome; it is largely in evidence in Florence
and even Venice, and it dominates Milan; but in most of the "hill towns"
and in the little hamlets and lonely haunts where a house is perhaps
improvised out of the primeval rock, the prevailing life is still
mediaeval, and only awakens on festa days into any semblance of activity.
Somewhere, away up in the hills, several miles from Pegli,--on the
Mediterranean coast near Genoa,--is one of these sequestered little hill
towns called _Acqua Sacra_. The name is obvious, indeed, for the sound
of the "sacred water" fills the air, falling from every hillside and
from the fountain of the _acqua sacra_ by the church. Pilgrims come from
miles around to drink of these waters. Each house in this remote little
hamlet is of solid stone, resembling a fortress on a small scale, and
the houses cling to the hillsides like mosses to a rock. Though far up
in the mountains, the hills rise around the hamlet like city walls,
as if the life of all the world were kept outside. The unforeseen visit
to these remote hamlets, suddenly chancing upon some small centre of
happy and half-idyllic life, is one of the charms of tourist travel in
this land of ineffable loveliness.
[Illustration: RUINS OF THE GREEK THEATRE, TAORMINA, SICILY
_Page 429_]
The approach to Italy, by whatever direction, by land or by sea, one
enters, is one of magical beauty. Whether one enters from the
Mediterranean or from the Adriatic, or by means of the Mont Cenis, the
Simplon, or the St. Gothard pass, through the sublime mountain wall,
each gateway is marvellous in attraction. Approaching from the seas that
completely surround Italy except on one side, the almost undreamed-of
splendor of Naples, Genoa, and Venice, as seen from off the shore,
exceeds all power of painter or poet to reproduce. The precipitous coast
of Sicily; the picturesque city of Palermo; the wonderful ruins of the
Greek theatre on the heights in Taormina,--all enchant the tourist. To
anchor off Naples, in the beautiful bay, serves the purpose of an hotel
out at sea. It is like living in Venice--only more so! By the little
rowboats one may go, at any moment, to Naples, and it is more delightful
than passing the days in the city itself. For at night as one strolls
or sits on deck what a picture is before the eye! All Naples, on her
semicircular shores, with her terraced heights rising above, defined in
a blaze of electric lights! Genoa, _la Superba_, is still more
magnificent when seen from the sea; and Venice, rising dream-enchanted,
completes the wonders of the approach by water.
As the new Italy has not yet achieved any homogeneous unity, Naples,
Rome, Florence, Venice, and Milan differ in their characteristics to
such a degree that no general interpretation of the residents of any one
would appropriately describe those of another. Paris and Vienna hardly
differ as much as do Milan and Rome; and Venice, Florence, and Rome,
each rich in art treasures, have little else in common. Certain
characteristics of each of the large cities reveal themselves
prominently, even to a superficial observer. Milan, as has been said, is
a centre of activity, as Florence is of culture and accomplishments.
Florence has the largest and the most choice circulating library in all
Italy and one that ranks among the best on the Continent. Her galleries
are treasure stores of art, and her social life is unsurpassed--one
might almost say unrivalled--in its fine quality. Music, philosophic
culture, learning in all lines of research characterize Florentine
society. Education has always been regarded in Florence as a matter of
prime importance, and when the government grant of funds is insufficient
the sum is made up by private contributions, so that the _Scuola del
Popolo_ gives free instruction, yearly, to eighteen hundred pupils, in
every branch of technical and art education. This fact alone offers its
own explanation of that general intelligence of the people which so
impresses the visitor in Florence. But this is a municipal rather than
national fact. Every special development in any direction in Italy will
always be found to be the characteristic of the city or locality, not of
the country as a whole; and thus the unity of Italy is still a political
expression rather than a political fact. It is a theory which is not yet
developed into an experience. Italy is in the making. Practically, she
is the youngest of countries, with less than forty years of experimental
attempt at _national_ life behind her. Not until 1919 will she have
attained the first half century of her united life. Educational
facilities, inclusive of schools, libraries, and museums; railroads,
telegraph and telephone service, electric lighting and electric
trams,--all the ways and means of the modern mechanism of life are,
inevitably, in a nebulous state in Italy. The political situation is
extremely interesting at the present time. That the "Blacks" and the
"Whites" are diametrically opposed to each other is in the nature of
history rather than that of contemporary record or of prophecy; and that
this is a traditional attitude in this city of the Caesars is not a fact
by any means unknown; but the situation is complicated by the third
party--the Socialists--who, by allying themselves with either, would
easily turn the scales and command the situation. If they were ardent
Catholics and were advocates of the Papal supremacy, the temporal power
of the Pope would be restored in less time almost than could be
recorded, and Pius X would be in residence in the Palazzo Quirinale
rather than Victor Emanuele III. But this great modern uprising in
Italy--a movement that is gathering force and numbers so rapidly that no
one can venture to prophesy results even in the comparatively immediate
future--this great modern movement is neither for church nor state. The
Socialist uprising is very strong in Milan and through Northern Italy.
It is much in evidence in the Umbrian region--in Foligno, Spoleto,
Nervi, and those towns; and from Frascati to Genzano and in the Lake
Nemi chain of villages--Rocca di Papa, Castel Gandolpho, Ariccia,
Albano--these villages within some fifteen miles of Rome. In these there
is a veritable stronghold of Socialism, where its purposes and policy
are entrenched. Yet when one alludes to its policy, the term is rather
too definite. If it had a settled and well-formulated policy on which
all its adherents were in absolute accord they would carry all before
them. But Socialism is still a very elastic term and covers, if not a
multitude of sins, at least a multitude of ideas and ideals. There is
now a rumor that the situation is forcing the absolutely inconceivable
union of church and state--of the Vatican and the Quirinale--that they
may thus withstand their common foe. A more amazing and extraordinary
turn of affairs could not be imagined; and if the rumor (which is now
becoming more coherent in Rome) should prove to be the forerunner of
any truth, the situation will be one of the most amazing in all history.
[Illustration: PONTE VECCHIO, FLORENCE
_Page 430_]
Epoch-making events in the course of progress are always preceded by
circumstances that form to them a natural approach and chain of
causation. They are the results of which the causes stretch backward in
the past. One of the things that has an incalculably determining
influence on the present situation is that of the character of the
present Pope. His Holiness, Pius X, brings to the Papacy an entirely new
element. He is no ascetic or exclusive ecclesiastic; he is no diplomat
or intriguant, but rather a simple, kindly man, of a simplicity totally
unprecedented in the annals of the Palazzo Vaticano. Instead of clinging
with unswerving intensity of devotion to the idea of the restoration of
the temporal power of the church, Pope Pius X would not be disinclined
to the uniting of church and state as in England; the Vatican to remain,
like the See of Canterbury, the acknowledged head of the spiritual
power, while the Quirinale remained the head of the government to which
the church should give its political adherence, the Quirinale in return
giving to the Vatican its religious adherence. Perhaps it is not too
much to say that something not unlike this might easily become--if it is
not already--the dream of Pius X. But in the mean time there is another
factor with which to reckon, and that is the present Papal Secretary of
State, Cardinal Merry del Val. He it is who really holds the mystic key
of St. Peter's. He is a diplomatist, an ecclesiastic, an embodiment of
all that is severe and archaic in authority. The Pope is by no means
able to set his course by his own watch-lights. The College of Cardinals
surrounds him, and the College of Cardinals is practically one Cardinal,
the keen scholar and the all determining Cardinal Merry del Val, whose
personality dominates the court of the Vatican. This remarkable prelate
represents the most advanced and progressive thought of the day in many
ways,--as has been noted in preceding pages,--but as a Jesuit he is
unalterably devoted to what he considers the only ideal,--the
restoration of the temporal power of the Pope. Spain revealed her
attitude when King Alphonso asked of all the monarchs of Europe that the
name of each should be borne by his infant son, the heir-apparent; and
for Italy he asked the name of the Pope and not of the King, thus
recognizing Pius X rather than Victor Emmanuel III as the head of the
nation.