Part 20 (1/2)
Beyond this, reader, my old friend and valued acquaintance on other themes, I shall tell you nothing of Naples, for it is a thing apart in the journey of life, and, if represented at all, should be so in a fairer form than offers itself at present. Now the actual life here is over, I am going to Rome, and expect to see that fane of thought the last day of this week.
At Genoa and Leghorn, I saw for the first time Italians in their homes. Very attractive I found them, charming women, refined men, eloquent and courteous. If the cold wind hid Italy, it could not the Italians. A little group of faces, each so full of character, dignity, and, what is so rare in an American face, the capacity for pure, exalting pa.s.sion, will live ever in my memory,--the fulfilment of a hope!
We started from Leghorn in an English boat, highly recommended, and as little deserving of such praise as many another bepuffed article.
In the middle of a fine, clear night, she was run into by the mail steamer, which all on deck clearly saw coming upon her, for no reason that could be ascertained, except that the man at the wheel said _he_ had turned the right way, and it never seemed to occur to him that he could change when he found the other steamer had taken the same direction. To be sure, the other steamer was equally careless, but as a change on our part would have prevented an accident that narrowly missed sending us all to the bottom, it hardly seemed worth while to persist, for the sake of convicting them of error.
Neither the Captain nor any of his people spoke French, and we had been much amused before by the chambermaid acting out the old story of ”Will you lend me the loan of a gridiron?” A Polish lady was on board, with a French waiting-maid, who understood no word of English. The daughter of John Bull would speak to the lady in English, and, when she found it of no use, would say imperiously to the _suivante_, ”Go and ask your mistress what she will have for breakfast.” And now when I went on deck there was a parley between the two steamers, which the Captain was obliged to manage by such interpreters as he could find; it was a long and confused business. It ended at last in the Neapolitan steamer taking us in tow for an inglorious return to Leghorn. When she had decided upon this she swept round, her lights glancing like sagacious eyes, to take us. The sea was calm as a lake, the sky full of stars; she made a long detour, with her black hull, her smoke and lights, which look so pretty at night, then came round to us like the bend of an arm embracing. It was a pretty picture, worth the stop and the fright,--perhaps the loss of twenty-four hours, though I did not think so at the time.
At Leghorn we changed the boat, and, retracing our steps, came now at last to Naples,--to this priest-ridden, misgoverned, full of dirty, degraded men and women, yet still most lovely Naples,--of which the most I can say is that the divine aspect of nature _can_ make you forget the situation of man in this region, which was surely intended for him as a princely child, angelic in virtue, genius, and beauty, and not as a begging, vermin-haunted, image kissing Lazzarone.
LETTER XIV.
ITALY.--MISFORTUNE OF TRAVELLERS.--ENGLISH TRAVELLERS.-- c.o.c.kNEYISM.--MACDONALD THE SCULPTOR.--BRITISH ARISTOCRACY.-- TENERANI.--WOLFF'S DIANA AND SEASONS.--GOTT.--CRAWFORD.--OVERBECK THE PAINTER.--AMERICAN PAINTERS IN ROME.--TERRY.--GRANCH.--HICKS.-- REMAINS OF THE ANTIQUE.--ITALIAN PAINTERS.--DOMENICHIMO AND t.i.tIAN.--FRESCOS OF RAPHAEL.--MICHEL ANGELO.--THE COLOSSEUM.--HOLY WEEK.--ST. PETER'S.--PIUS IX. AND HIS MEASURES.--POPULAR ENTHUSIASM.--PUBLIC DINNER AT THE BATHS OF t.i.tUS.--AUSTRIAN JEALOUSY.--THE ”CONTEMPORANEO.”
Rome, May, 1847.
There is very little that I can like to write about Italy. Italy is beautiful, worthy to be loved and embraced, not talked about. Yet I remember well that, when afar, I liked to read what was written about her; now, all thought of it is very tedious.
The traveller pa.s.sing along the beaten track, vetturinoed from inn to inn, ciceroned from gallery to gallery, thrown, through indolence, want of tact, or ignorance of the language, too much into the society of his compatriots, sees the least possible of the country; fortunately, it is impossible to avoid seeing a great deal. The great features of the part pursue and fill the eye.
Yet I find that it is quite out of the question to know Italy; to say anything of her that is full and sweet, so as to convey any idea of her spirit, without long residence, and residence in the districts untouched by the scorch and dust of foreign invasion (the invasion of the _dilettanti_ I mean), and without an intimacy of feeling, an abandonment to the spirit of the place, impossible to most Americans.
They retain too much, of their English blood; and the travelling English, as a cla.s.s, seem to me the most unseeing of all possible animals. There are exceptions; for instance, the perceptions and pictures of Browning seem as delicate and just here on the spot as they did at a distance; but, take them as a cla.s.s, they have the vulgar familiarity of Mrs. Trollope without her vivacity, the c.o.c.kneyism of d.i.c.kens without his graphic power and love of the odd corners of human nature. I admired the English at home in their island; I admired their honor, truth, practical intelligence, persistent power. But they do not look well in Italy; they are not the figures for this landscape. I am indignant at the contempt they have presumed to express for the faults of our semi-barbarous state. What is the vulgarity expressed in our tobacco-chewing, and way of eating eggs, compared to that which elbows the Greek marbles, guide-book in hand,--chatters and sneers through the Miserere of the Sistine Chapel, beneath the very glance of Michel Angelo's Sibyls,--praises St. Peter's as ”_nice_”--talks of ”_managing_” the Colosseum by moonlight,--and s.n.a.t.c.hes ”_bits_” for a ”_sketch_” from the sublime silence of the Campagna.
Yet I was again reconciled with them, the other day, in visiting the studio of Macdonald. There I found a complete gallery of the aristocracy of England; for each lord and lady who visits Rome considers it a part of the ceremony to sit to him for a bust. And what a fine race! how worthy the marble! what heads of orators, statesmen, gentlemen! of women chaste, grave, resolute, and tender!
Unfortunately, they do not look as well in flesh and blood; then they show the habitual coldness of their temperament, the habitual subservience to frivolous conventionalities. They need some great occasion, some exciting crisis, in order to make them look as free and dignified as these busts; yet is the beauty there, though, imprisoned, and clouded, and such a crisis would show us more then one Boadicea, more than one Alfred. Tenerani has just completed a statue which is highly-spoken of; it is called the Angel of the Resurrection. I was not so fortunate as to find it in his studio. In that of Wolff I saw a Diana, ordered by the Emperor of Russia. It is modern and sentimental; as different from, the antique Diana as the trance of a novel-read young lady of our day from the thrill with which the ancient shepherds deprecated the magic pervasions of Hecate, but very beautiful and exquisitely wrought. He has also lately finished the Four Seasons, represented as children. Of these, Winter is graceful and charming.
Among the sculptors I delayed longest in the work-rooms of Gott.
I found his groups of young figures connected with animals very refres.h.i.+ng after the grander attempts of the present time. They seem real growths of his habitual mind,--fruits of Nature, full of joy and freedom. His spaniels and other frisky poppets would please Apollo far better than most of the marble nymphs and muses of the present day.
Our Crawford has just finished a bust of Mrs. Crawford, which is extremely beautiful, full of grace and innocent sweetness. All its accessaries are charming,--the wreaths, the arrangement of drapery, the stuff of which the robe is made. I hope it will be much seen on its arrival in New York. He has also an Herodias in the clay, which is individual in expression, and the figure of distinguished elegance.
I liked the designs of Crawford better than those of Gibson, who is estimated as highest in the profession now.
Among the studios of the European painters I have visited only that of Overbeck. It is well known in the United States what his pictures are.
I have much to say at a more favorable time of what they represented to me. He himself looks as if he had just stepped out of one of them,--a lay monk, with a pious eye and habitual morality of thought which limits every gesture.
Painting is not largely represented here by American artists at present. Terry has two pleasing pictures on the easel: one is a costume picture of Italian life, such as I saw it myself, enchanted beyond my hopes, on coming to Naples on a day of grand festival in honor of Santa Agatha. Cranch sends soon to America a picture of the Campagna, such as I saw it on my first entrance into Rome, all light and calmness; Hicks, a charming half-length of an Italian girl, holding a mandolin: it will be sure to please. His pictures are full of life, and give the promise of some real achievement in Art.
Of the fragments of the great time, I have now seen nearly all that are treasured up here: I have, however, as yet nothing of consequence to say of them. I find that others have often given good hints as to how they _look_; and as to what they _are_, it can only be known by approximating to the state of soul out of which they grew. They should not be described, but reproduced. They are many and precious, yet is there not so much of high excellence as I had expected: they will not float the heart on a boundless sea of feeling, like the starry night on our Western prairies. Yet I love much to see the galleries of marbles, even when there are not many separately admirable, amid the cypresses and ilexes of Roman villas; and a picture that is good at all looks very good in one of these old palaces.
The Italian painters whom I have learned most to appreciate, since I came abroad, are Domenichino and t.i.tian. Of others one may learn something by copies and engravings: but not of these. The portraits of t.i.tian look upon me from the walls things new and strange. They are portraits of men such as I have not known. In his picture, absurdly called _Sacred and Profane Love_, in the Borghese Palace, one of the figures has developed my powers of gazing to an extent unknown before.
Domenichino seems very unequal in his pictures; but when he is grand and free, the energy of his genius perfectly satisfies. The frescos of Caracci and his scholars in the Farnese Palace have been to me a source of the purest pleasure, and I do not remember to have heard of them. I loved Guercino much before I came here, but I have looked too much at his pictures and begin to grow sick of them; he is a very limited genius. Leonardo I cannot yet like at all, but I suppose the pictures are good for some people to look at; they show a wonderful deal of study and thought. That is not what I can best appreciate in a work of art. I hate to see the marks of them. I want a simple and direct expression of soul. For the rest, the ordinary cant of connoisseur-s.h.i.+p on these matters seems in Italy even more detestable than elsewhere.
I have not yet so sufficiently recovered from my pain at finding the frescos of Raphael in such a state, as to be able to look at them, happily. I had heard of their condition, but could not realize it.
However, I have gained nothing by seeing his pictures in oil, which are well preserved. I find I had before the full impression of his genius. Michel Angelo's frescos, in like manner, I seem to have seen as far as I can. But it is not the same with the sculptures: my thought had not risen to the height of the Moses. It is the only thing in Europe, so far, which has entirely outgone my hopes. Michel Angelo was my demiG.o.d before; but I find no offering worthy to cast at the feet of his Moses. I like much, too, his Christ. It is a refres.h.i.+ng contrast with all the other representations of the same subject.