Volume I Part 1 (1/2)
The Romance of Biography.
Vol 1.
by Anna Jameson.
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.
These little sketches (they can pretend to no higher t.i.tle,) are submitted to the public with a feeling of timidity almost painful.
They are absolutely without any other pretension than that of exhibiting, in a small compa.s.s and under one point of view, many anecdotes of biography and criticism, and many beautiful poetical portraits, scattered through a variety of works, and all tending to ill.u.s.trate a subject in itself full of interest,--the influence which the beauty and virtue of women have exercised over the characters and writings of men of genius. But little praise or reputation attends the mere compiler, but the pleasure of the task has compensated its difficulty;--”song, beauty, youth, love, virtue, joy,” these ”flowers of Paradise,” whose growth is not of earth, were all around me; I had but to gather them from the intermingling weeds and briars, and to bind them into one sparkling wreath, consecrated to the glory of women and the gallantry of men.
The design which unfolded itself before me, as these little sketches extended gradually from a few memoranda into volumes, is not completed; much has been omitted, much suppressed. If I have paused midway in my task, it is not for want of materials, which offer themselves in almost exhaustless profusion--nor from want of interest in the subject--the most delightful in which the imagination ever revelled! but because I desponded over my own power to do it justice. I know, I feel that it required more extensive knowledge of languages, more matured judgment, more critical power, more eloquence;--only Madame de Stal could have fulfilled my conception of the style in which it ought to have been treated. It was enthusiasm, not presumption, which induced me to attempt it. I have touched on matters, on which there are a variety of tastes and opinions, and lightly pa.s.sed over questions on which there are volumes of grave ”historic doubts;” but I have ventured on no discussion, still less on any decision. I have been satisfied merely to quote my authorities; and where these exhibited many opposing facts and opinions, it seemed to me that there was far more propriety and much less egotism in simply expressing, in the first person, what I thought and felt, than in a.s.serting absolutely that a thing _is so_, or _is said to be so_. Every one has a right to have an opinion, and deliver it with modesty; but no one has a right to clothe such opinions in general a.s.sertions, and in terms which seem to insinuate that they are or ought to be universal. I know I am open to criticism and contradiction on a thousand points; but I have adhered strictly to what appeared to me the truth, and examined conscientiously all the sources of information that were open to me.
The history of this little book, were it worth revealing, would be the history, in miniature, of most human undertakings: it was begun with enthusiasm; it has been interrupted by intervals of illness, idleness, or more serious cares; it has been pursued through difficulties so great, that they would perhaps excuse its many deficiencies; and now I see its conclusion with a languor almost approaching to despair;--at least with a feeling which, while it renders me doubly sensitive to criticism, and apprehensive of failure, has rendered me almost indifferent to success, and careless of praise.
I owe four beautiful translations from the Italian (which are noticed in their proper places,) to the kindness of a living poet, whose justly celebrated name, were I allowed to mention it, would be subject of pride to myself, and double the value of this little book. I have no other a.s.sistance of any kind to acknowledge.
Will it be thought unfeminine or obtrusive, if I add yet a few words?
I think it due to truth and to myself to seize this opportunity of saying, that a little book published three years ago, and now perhaps forgotten, was not written for publication, nor would ever have been printed but for accidental circ.u.mstances.
That the t.i.tle under which it appeared was not given by the writer, but the publisher, who at the time knew nothing of the author.
And that several false dates, and unimportant circ.u.mstances and characters were interpolated, to conceal, if possible, the real purport and origin of the work. Thus the intention was not to create an illusion, by giving to fiction the appearance of truth, but, in fact, to give to truth the air of fiction. I was not _then_ prepared for all that a woman must meet and endure, who once suffers herself to be betrayed into authors.h.i.+p. She may repent at leisure, like a condemned spirit; but she has pa.s.sed that barrier from which there is no return.
C'est a.s.sez,--I will not add a word more, lest it should be said that I have only disclaimed the t.i.tle of the _Ennuye_, to a.s.sume that of the _Ennuyeuse_.
CHAPTER I.
A POET'S LOVE.
Io ti cinsi de gloria, e fatta ho dea!--GUIDI.
Of all the heaven-bestowed privileges of the poet, the highest, the dearest, the most enviable, is the power of immortalising the object of his love; of dividing with her his amaranthine wreath of glory, and repaying the inspiration caught from her eyes with a crown of everlasting fame. It is not enough that in his imagination he has deified her--that he has consecrated his faculties to her honour--that he has burned his heart in incense upon the altar of her perfections: the divinity thus decked out in richest and loveliest hues, he places on high, and calls upon all ages and all nations to bow down before her, and all ages and all nations obey! wors.h.i.+pping the beauty thus enshrined in imperishable verse, when others, perhaps as fair, and not less worthy, have gone down, unsung, ”to dust and an endless darkness.” How many women who would otherwise have stolen through the shades of domestic life, their charms, virtues, and affections buried with them, have become objects of eternal interest and admiration, because their memory is linked with the brightest monuments of human genius? While many a high-born dame, who once moved, G.o.ddess-like, upon the earth, and bestowed kingdoms with her hand, lives a mere name in some musty chronicle. Though her love was sought by princes, though with her dower she might have enriched an emperor,--what availed it?
”She had no poet--and she died!”
And how have women repaid this gift of immortality? O believe it, when the garland was such as woman is proud to wear, she amply and deeply rewarded him who placed it on her brow. If in return for being made ill.u.s.trious, she made her lover happy,--if for glory she gave a heart, was it not a rich equivalent? and if not--if the lover was unsuccessful, still the poet had his reward. Whence came the generous feelings, the high imaginations, the glorious fancies, the heavenward inspirations, which raised him above the herd of vulgar men--but from the enn.o.bling influence of her he loved? Through _her_, the world opened upon him with a diviner beauty, and all nature became in his sight but a transcript of the charms of his mistress. He saw her eyes in the stars of heaven, her lips in the half-blown rose. The perfume of the opening flowers was but her breath, that ”wafted sweetness round about the world:” the lily was ”a sweet thief” that had stolen its purity from her breast. The violet was dipped in the azure of her veins; the aurorean dews, ”dropt from the opening eyelids of the morn,” were not so pure as her tears; the last rose-tint of the dying day was not so bright or so delicate as her cheek. Her's was the freshness and the bloom of the Spring; she consumed him to languor as the Summer sun; she was kind as the bounteous Autumn, or she froze him with her wintry disdain. There was nothing in the wonders, the splendours, or the treasures of the created universe,--in heaven or in earth,--in the seasons or their change, that did not borrow from her some charm, some glory beyond its own. Was it not just that the beauty she dispensed should be consecrated to her adornment, and that the inspiration she bestowed should be repaid to her in fame?
For what of thee thy poet doth invent, He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, But found it in thy cheek; he can afford No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.