Part 4 (1/2)
Samuel Rogers paid us a long visit this morning. He does not look as if the suns of Italy had _revivified_ him--but he is as _amiable_ and amusing as ever. He talked long, _et avec beaucoup d'onction_, of ortolans and figs; till methought it was the very poetry of epicurism; and put me in mind of his own suppers--
”Where blus.h.i.+ng fruits through scatter'd leaves invite, Still clad in bloom and veiled in azure light.
The wine as rich in years as Horace sings;”
and the rest of his description, worthy of a poetical Apicius.
Rogers may be seen every day about eleven or twelve in the Tribune, seated opposite to the Venus, which appears to be the exclusive object of his adoration; and gazing, as if he hoped, like another Pygmalion, to animate the statue; or rather perhaps that the statue might animate _him_. A young Englishman of fas.h.i.+on, with as much talent as espieglerie, placed an epistle in verse between the fingers of the statue, addressed to Rogers; in which the G.o.ddess entreats him not to come there _ogling_ every day;--for though ”partial friends might deem him still alive,” she knew by his looks that he had come from the other side of the Styx; and retained her _antique_ abhorrence of the spectral dead, etc. etc. She concluded by beseeching him, if he could not desist from haunting her with his _ghostly_ presence, at least to spare her the added misfortune of being be-rhymed by his muse.
Rogers, with equal good nature and good sense, neither noticed these lines nor withdrew his friends.h.i.+p and intimacy from the writer.
Carlo Dolce is not one of my favourite masters. There is a cloying sweetness in his style, a general want of power which wearies me: yet I brought away from the Corsini Palace to-day an impression of a head by Carlo Dolce (La Poesia), which I shall never forget. Now I recall the picture, I am at a loss to tell where lies the charm which has thus powerfully seized on my imagination. Here are no ”eyes upturned like one inspired”--no distortion--no rapt enthusiasm--no Muse full of the G.o.d;--but it is a head so purely, so divinely intellectual, so heavenly sweet, and yet so penetrating,--so full of sensibility, and yet so unstained by earthly pa.s.sion--so brilliant, and yet so calm--that if Carlo Dolce had lived in our days, I should have thought he intended it for the personified genius of Wordsworth's poetry.
There is such an individual reality about this beautiful head, that I am inclined to believe the tradition, that it is the portrait of one of Carlo Dolce's daughters who died young:--and yet
”Did ever mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?”
_Nov. 15._--Our stay at Florence promises to be far gayer than either Milan or Venice, or even Paris; more diversified by society, as well as affording a wider field of occupation and amus.e.m.e.nt.
Sometimes in the long evenings, when fatigued and over-excited, I recline apart on the sofa, or bury myself in the recesses of a _fauteuil_; when I am aware that my mind is wandering away to forbidden themes, I force my attention to what is going forward; and often see and hear much that is entertaining, if not improving. People are so accustomed to my pale face, languid indifference and, what M---- calls, my _impracticable_ silence, that after the first glance and introduction, I believe they are scarcely sensible of my presence: so I sit, and look, and listen, secure and harboured in my apparent dullness. The flashes of wit, the attempts at sentiment, the affectation of enthusiasm, the absurdities of folly, and the blunders of ignorance; the contrast of characters and the clash of opinions, the scandalous anecdotes of the day, related with sprightly malice, and listened to with equally malicious avidity,--all these, in my days of health and happiness, had power to surprise, or amuse, or provoke me. I could mingle _then_ in the conflict of minds; and hear my part with smiles in the social circle; though the next moment, perhaps, I might contemn myself and others: and the personal scandal, the characteristic tale, the amusing folly, or the malignant wit, were effaced from my mind--
----”Like forms with chalk Painted on rich men's floors for one feast night.”
Now it is different: I can smile yet, but my smile is in pity, rather than in mockery. If suffering has subdued my mind to seriousness, and perhaps enfeebled its powers, I may at least hope that it has not soured or imbittered my temper:--if what could once _amuse_, no longer amuses,--what could once _provoke_ has no longer power to irritate: thus my loss may be improved into a gain--_car tout est bien, quand tout est mal_.
It is sorrow which makes our experience; it is sorrow which teaches us to feel properly for ourselves and for others. We must feel deeply, before we can think rightly. It is not in the tempest and storm of pa.s.sions we can reflect,--but afterwards when _the waters have gone over our soul_; and like the precious gems and the rich merchandize which the wild wave casts on the sh.o.r.e out of the wreck it has made--such are the thoughts left by retiring pa.s.sions.
Reflection is the result of feeling; from that absorbing, heart-rending compa.s.sion for oneself (the most painful sensation, _almost_, of which our nature is capable), springs a deeper sympathy for others; and from the sense of our own weakness, and our own self-upbraiding, arises a disposition to be indulgent--to forbear--and to forgive--so at least it ought to be. When once we have shed those inexpressibly bitter tears, which fall unregarded, and which we forget to wipe away, O how we shrink from inflicting pain! how we shudder at unkindness!--and think all harshness even in thought, only another name for cruelty! These are but common-place truths, I know, which have often been a thousand times better expressed. Formerly I heard them, read them, and thought I believed them: now I feel them; and feeling, I utter them as if they were something new.--Alas! the lessons of sorrow are as old as the world itself.
To-day we have seen nothing new. In the morning I was ill: in the afternoon we drove to the Cascina; and while the rest walked, I spread my shawl upon the bank and basked like a lizard in the suns.h.i.+ne. It was a most lovely day, a summer-day in England. In this paradise of a country, the common air, and earth, and skies, seem happiness enough.
While I sat to-day, on my green bank--languid, indeed, but free from pain--and looked round upon a scene which has lost its novelty, but none of its beauty,--where Florence, with its glittering domes and its back-ground of sunny hills, terminated my view on one side, and the Apennines, tinted with rose colour and gold, bounded it on the other, I felt not only pleasure, but a deep thankfulness that such pleasures were yet left to me.
Among the gay figures who pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed before me, I remarked a benevolent but rather heavy-looking old gentleman, with a shawl hanging over his arm, and holding a parasol, with which he was gallantly shading a little plain old woman from the November sun.
After them walked two young ladies, simply dressed; and then followed a tall and very handsome young man, with a plain but elegant girl hanging on his arm. This was the Grand Duke and his family; with the Prince of Carignano, who has lately married one of his daughters. Two servants in plain drab liveries, followed at a considerable distance.
People politely drew on one side as they approached; but no other homage was paid to the sovereign, who thus takes his walk in public almost every day. Lady Morgan is merry at the expense of the Grand Duke's taste for brick and mortar: but monarchs, like other men, must have their amus.e.m.e.nts; some invent uniforms, some st.i.tch embroidery;--and why should not this good-natured Grand Duke amuse himself with his trowel if he likes it? As to the Prince of Carignano, I give him up to her lash--_le traitre_--but perhaps he thought he was doing right: and at all events there are not flatterers wanting, to call his perfidy patriotism.
I am told that Florence retains its reputation of being the most devout capital in Italy, and that here love, music, and devotion hold divided empire, or rather are _tria juncta in uno_. The liberal patronage and taste of Lord Burghersh, contribute perhaps to make music so much a _pa.s.sion_ as it is at present. Magnelli, the Grand Duke's Maestra di Cappella, and director of the Conservatorio, is the finest tenor in Italy. I have the pleasure of hearing him frequently, and think the purity of his taste at least equal to the perfection of his voice; rare praise for a singer in these ”most brisk and giddy-paced times.” He gave us last night the beautiful recitative which introduces Desdemona's song in Oth.e.l.lo--
”Nessun maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria!”
and the words, the music, and the divine pathos of the man's voice combined, made me feel--as I thought I never could have felt again.
TO ----
As sounds of sweetest music, heard at eve, When summer dews weep over languid flowers, When the still air conveys each touch, each tone, However faint--and breathes it on the ear With a distinct and thrilling power, that leaves Its memory long within the raptur'd soul.-- --Even _such_ thou art to me!--and thus I sit And feel the harmony that round thee lives, And breathes from every feature. Thus I sit-- And when most quiet--cold--or silent--_then_ Even then, I feel each word, each look, each tone!