The Diary of an Ennuyee Part 8

A REPLY TO A COMPLAINT

Trust not the ready smile!

'Tis a delusive glow-- For cold and dark the while The spirits flag below.

With a beam of departed joy, The eye may kindle yet: As the cloud in yon wintry sky, Still glows with the sun that is set,

The cloud will vanish away-- The sun while s.h.i.+ne to morrow-- To me shall break no day On this dull night of sorrow!

A REPLY TO A REPROACH.

I would not that the world should know, How deep within my panting heart A thousand warmer feelings glow, Than word or look could e'er impart.

I would not that the world should guess At aught beyond this outward show; What happy dreams in secret bless-- What burning tears in secret flow.

And let them deem me cold or vain; --O there is one who thinks not so!

In one devoted heart I reign, And what is all the rest below?

9.--We have had two days of truly English weather; cold, damp, and gloomy, with storms of wind and rain. I know not why, but there is something peculiarly deforming and discordant in bad weather here; and we are all rather stupid and depressed. To me, suns.h.i.+ne and warmth are subst.i.tutes for health and spirits; and their absence inflicts positive suffering. There is not a single room in our palazzetto which is weather-proof; and as to a good fire, it is a luxury unknown, but not unnecessary, in these regions. In such apartments as contain no fire-place, a stufa, or portable stove, is set, which diffuses little warmth, and renders the air insupportably close and suffocating.

I witnessed a scene last night, which was a good ill.u.s.tration of that extraordinary indolence for which the Romans are remarkable. Our laquais Camillo suffered himself to be turned off, rather than put wood on the fire three times a-day; he would rather, he said, "starve in the streets than break his back by carrying burdens like an a.s.s; and though he was miserable to displease the Onoratissimo Padrone, his first _duty_ was to take care of his own health, which, with the blessing of the saints, he was determined to do." R---- threw him his wages, repeating with great contempt the only word of his long speech he understood, "_Asino!_" "Sono Romano, io," replied the fellow, drawing himself up with dignity. He look his wages, however, and marched out of the house.

The impertinence of this Camillo was sometimes amusing, but oftener provoking. He piqued himself on being a profound antiquarian, would confute Nibby, and carried Nardini in his pocket, to whom he referred on all occasions: yet the other day he had the impudence to a.s.sure us that Caius Cestus was an English Protestant, who was excommunicated by Pope Julius Caesar; and took his Nardini out of his pocket to prove his a.s.sertion.

V---- brought me to-day the "Souvenirs de Felicie," of Madame de Genlis, which amused me delightfully for a few hours. They contain many truths, many half or whole falsehoods, many impertinent things, and several very interesting anecdotes. They are written with all the graceful simplicity of style, and in that tone of lady-like feeling which distinguishes whatever she writes: but it is clear that though she represents these "Souvenirs" as mere extracts from her journal, they have been carefully composed or re-composed for publication, and were always intended to be seen. Now if my poor little Diary should ever be seen! I tremble but to think of it!--what egotism and vanity, what discontent--repining--caprice--should I be accused of?--neither perhaps have I always been just to others; _quand on sent, on reflechit rarement_. Such strange vicissitudes of temper--such opposite extremes of thinking and feeling, written down at the moment, without noticing the intervening links of circ.u.mstances and impressions which led to them, would appear like detraction, if they should meet the eye of any indifferent person--but I think I have taken sufficient precautions against the possibility of such an exposure, and the only eyes which will ever glance over this blotted page, when the hand that writes it is cold, will read, not to _criticise_, but to _sympathise_.

10.--A lovely brilliant day, the sky without a cloud and the air as soft as summer. The carriages were ordered immediately after breakfast, and we sallied forth in high spirits--resolved as L** said, with his usual felicitous application of Shakspeare,

"To take the tide in the affairs of men."

The baths of t.i.tus are on the aesquiline; and nothing remains of them but piles of brickwork, and a few subterranean chambers almost choked with rubbish. Some fragments of exquisite arabesque painting are visible on the ceilings and walls; and the gilding and colours are still fresh and bright. The brickwork is perfectly solid and firm, and appeared as if finished yesterday. On the whole the impression on my mind was, that not the slow and gentle hand of time, but sudden rapine and violence had caused the devastation around us; and looking into Nardini on my return, I found that the baths of t.i.tus were nearly entire in the thirteenth century, but were demolished with great labour and difficulty by the ferocious Senator Brancaleone, who, about the year 1257, destroyed an infinite number of ancient edifices, "per togliere ai n.o.bili il modo di fortificarsi." The ruins were excavated during the pontificate of Julius the Second, and under the direction of Raffaelle, who is supposed to have taken the idea of the arabesques in the Loggie of the Vatican, from the paintings here. We were shown the niche in which the Laoc.o.o.n stood, when it was discovered in 1502.

After leaving the baths, we entered the neighbouring church of San Pietro in Vincoli, to look again at the beautiful fluted Doric columns which once adorned the splendid edifice of t.i.tus: and on this occasion we were shown the chest in which the fetters of St. Peter are preserved in a triple enclosure of iron, wood, and silver. My unreasonable curiosity not being satisfied by looking at the mere outside of this sacred coffer, I turned to the monk who exhibited it, and civilly requested that he would open it, and show us the miraculous treasure it contained. The poor man looked absolutely astounded and aghast at the audacity of my request, and stammered out, that the coffer was never opened, without a written order from his holiness the pope, and in the presence of a cardinal, and, that this favour was never granted to a heretic (con rispetto parlando); and with this excuse we were obliged to be satisfied.

The church of San Martino del Monte is built on part of the substructure of the baths of t.i.tus; and there is a door opening from the church, by which you descend into the ancient subterranean vaults.

The small, but exquisite pillars, and the pavement, which is of the richest marbles, were brought from the Villa of Adrian at Tivoli. The walls were painted in fres...o...b.. Nicolo and Gaspar Poussin, and were once a celebrated study for young landscape painters; almost every vestige of colouring is now obliterated by the damp which streams down the walls. There are some excellent modern pictures in good preservation, I think by Carluccio. This church, though not large, is one of the most magnificent we have yet seen, and the most precious materials are lavished in profusion on every part. The body of Cardinal Tomasi is preserved here, embalmed in a gla.s.s case. It is exhibited conspicuously, and in my life I never saw (or smelt) anything so abominable and disgusting.

The rest of the morning was spent in the Vatican.

I stood to-day for some time between those two great masterpieces, the Transfiguration of Raffaelle, and Domenichino's Communion of St.

Jerome. I studied them, I examined them figure by figure, and then in the ensemble, and mused upon the different effects they produce, and were designed to produce, until I thought I could decide to my own satisfaction on their respective merits. I am not ignorant that the Transfiguration is p.r.o.nounced the "grandest picture in the world," nor so insensible to excellence as to regard this glorious composition without all the admiration due to it. I am dazzled by the flood of light which bursts from the opening heavens above, and affected by the dramatic interest of the group below. What splendour of colour! What variety of expression! What masterly grouping of the heads! I see all this--but to me Raffaelle's picture wants unity of interest: it is two pictures in one: the demoniac boy in the foreground always shocks me; and thus from my peculiarity of taste the pleasure it gives me is not so perfect as it ought to be.

On the other hand, I never can turn to the Domenichino without being thrilled with emotion, and touched with awe. The story is told with the most admirable skill, and with the most exquisite truth and simplicity: the interest is one and the same; it all centres in the person of the expiring saint; and the calm benignity of the officiating priest is finely contrasted with the countenances of the group who support the dying form of St. Jerome: anxious tenderness, grief, hope, and fear, are expressed with such deep pathos and reality, that the spectator forgets admiration in sympathy; and I have gazed, till I could almost have fancied myself one of the a.s.sistants.

The colouring is as admirable as the composition--gorgeously rich in effect, but subdued to a tone which harmonizes with the solemnity of the subject.

There is a curious anecdote connected with this picture, which I wish I had noted down at length as it was related to me, and at the time I heard it: it is briefly this. The picture was painted by Domenichino for the church of San Girolamo della Carita. At that time the factions between the different schools of painting ran so high at Rome, that the followers of Domenichino and Guido absolutely stabbed and poisoned each other; and the popular prejudice being in favour of the latter, the Communion of St. Jerome was torn down from its place, and flung into a lumber garret. Some time afterwards, the superiors of the convent wis.h.i.+ng to subst.i.tute a new altar-piece, commissioned Nicolo Poussin to execute it; and sent him Domenichino's rejected picture as old canvas to paint upon. No sooner had the generous Poussin cast his eyes on it, than he was struck, as well he might be, with astonishment and admiration. He immediately carried it into the church, and there lectured in public on its beauties, until he made the stupid monks ashamed of their blind rejection of such a masterpiece, and boldly gave it that character it has ever since retained, of being the second best picture in the world.

11.--A party of four, including L** and myself, ascended the dome of St. Peter's; and even mounted into the gilt ball. It was a most fatiguing expedition, and one I have since repented. I gained, however, a more perfect, and a more sublime idea of the architectural wonders of St. Peter's, than I had before; and I was equally pleased and surprised by the exquisite neatness and cleanliness of every part of the building. We drove from St. Peter's to the church of St.

Onofrio, to visit the tomb of Ta.s.so. A plain slab marks the spot, which requires nothing but his name to distinguish it. "After life's fitful fever he sleeps well." The poet Guidi lies in a little chapel close by; and his effigy is so placed that the eyes appear fixed upon the tomb of Ta.s.so.

In the church of Santa Maria Trastevere (which is held in peculiar reverence by the Tresteverini), there is nothing remarkable, except that like many others in Rome, it is rich in the spoils of antique splendour: afterwards to the palazzo Farneze and the Farnesina, to see the frescos of Raffaelle, Giulio Romano, and the Caraccis, which have long been rendered familiar to me in copies and engravings.

12.--I did penance at home for the fatigue of the day before, and to-day (the 13th) I took a delightful drive of several hours attended only by Saccia. Having examined at different times, and in detail, most of the interesting objects within the compa.s.s of the ancient city, I wished to generalize what I had seen, by a kind of _survey_ of the whole. For this purpose, making the Capitol a central point, I drove first slowly through the Forum, and made the circuit of the Palatine Hill, then by the arch of Ja.n.u.s (which by a late decision of the antiquarians, has no more to do with Ja.n.u.s than with Jupiter), and the temple of Vesta, back again over the site of the Circus Maximus, between the Palatine and the Aventine (the scene of the Rape of the Sabines), to the baths of Caracalla, where I spent an hour, musing, sketching, and poetizing; thence to the church of San Stefano Rotundo, once a temple dedicated to Claudius by Agrippina; over the Celian Hill, covered with ma.s.ses of ruins, to the church of St. John and St.

Paul, a small but beautiful edifice; then to the neighbouring church of San Gregorio, from the steps of which there is such a n.o.ble view.

Thence I returned by the arch of Constantine, and the Coliseum, which frowned on me in black ma.s.ses through the soft but deepening twilight, through the street now called the Suburra, but formerly the Via Scelerata, where Tullia trampled over the dead body of her father, and so over the Quirinal home.

My excursion was altogether delightful, and gave me the most magnificent, and I had almost said, the most _bewildering_ ideas of the grandeur and extent of ancient Rome. Every step was cla.s.sic ground: ill.u.s.trious names, and splendid recollections crowded upon the fancy--

"And trailing clouds of glory did they come."

On the Palatine Hill were the houses of Cicero and the Gracchi; Horace, Virgil, and Ovid resided on the Aventine; and Mecaenas and Pliny on the aesquiline. If one little fragment of a wall remained, which could with any shadow of probability be pointed out as belonging to the residence of Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, how much dearer, how much more sanctified to memory would it be than all the magnificent ruins of the fabrics of the Caesars! But no--all has pa.s.sed away. I have heard the remains of Rome coa.r.s.ely ridiculed, because, after the researches of centuries, so little is comparatively known--because of the endless disputes of antiquarians, and the night and ignorance in which all is involved; but to the imagination there is something singularly striking in this mysterious veil which hangs like a cloud upon the objects around us. I trod to-day over the shapeless ma.s.ses of building, extending in every direction as far as the eye could reach.

Who had inhabited the edifices I trampled under my feet? What hearts had burned--what heads had thought--what spirits had kindled _there_, where nothing was seen but a wilderness and waste, and heaps of ruins, to which antiquaries--even Nibby himself--dare not give a name? All swept away--buried beneath an ocean of oblivion, above which rise a few great and glorious names, like rocks, over which the billows of time break in vain.

"Indi esclamo, qual' notte atra, importuua Tutte l'ampie tue glorie a un tratto amorza?

Glorie di senno, di valor, di forza Gia mille avesti, or non hai pur una!"

One of the most striking scenes I saw to-day was the Roman forum, crowded with the common people gaily dressed (it is a festa or saint's day); the women sitting in groups upon the fallen columns, nursing or amusing their children. The men were playing at mora, or at a game like quoits. Under the vast side of the Palatine Hill, on the side of the Circus Maximus, I met a woman mounted on an a.s.s, habited in a most beautiful and singular holiday costume, a man walked by her side, leading the animal she rode, with lover-like watchfulness. He was _en veste_, and I observed that his cloak was thrown over the back of the a.s.s as a subst.i.tute for a saddle. Two men followed behind with their long capotes hanging from their shoulders, and carrying guitars, which they struck from time to time, singing as they walked along. A little in advance there is a small chapel, and Madona. A young girl approached, and laying a bouquet of flowers before the image, she knelt down, hid her face in her ap.r.o.n, and wrung her hands from time to time as if she was praying with fervor. When the group I have just mentioned came up, they left the pathway, and made a circuit of many yards to avoid disturbing her, the men taking off their hats, and the woman inclining her head, in sign of respect, as they pa.s.sed.

All this sounds, while I soberly write it down, very sentimental, and picturesque, and poetical. It was exactly what I saw--what I often see: such is the place, the scenery, the people. Every group is a picture, the commonest object has some interest attached to it, the commonest action is dignified by sentiment, the language around us is music, and the air we breathe is poetry.

Just as I was writing the word _music_, the sounds of a guitar attracted me to the window, which looks into a narrow back street, and is exactly opposite a small white house belonging to a vetturino, who has a very pretty daughter. For her this serenade was evidently intended; for the moment the music began, she placed a light in the window as a signal that she listened propitiously, and then retired.

The group below consisted of two men, the lover and a musician he had brought with him: the former stood looking up at the window with his hat off, and the musician, after singing two very beautiful airs, concluded with the delicious and popular Arietta "Buona notte, amato bene!" to which the lover _whistled_ a second, in such perfect tune, and with such exquisite taste, that I was enchanted. Rome is famous for serenades and serenaders; but at this season they are seldom heard. I remember at Venice being wakened in the dead of the night by such delicious music, that (to use a hyperbole common in the mouths of this poetical people) I was "transported to the seventh heaven:"

before I could perfectly recollect myself, the music ceased, the inhabitants of the neighbouring houses threw open their cas.e.m.e.nts, and vehemently and enthusiastically applauded, clapping their hands, and shouting bravos: but neither at Venice, at Padua, nor at Florence did I hear any thing that pleased and touched me so much as the serenade to which I have just been listening.

14.--To-day was quite heavenly--like a lovely May-day in England: the air so pure, so soft, and the sun so warm, that I would gladly have dispensed with my shawl and pelisse. We went in carriages to the other side of the Palatine, and then dispersing in small parties, as will or fancy led, we lounged and wandered about in the Coliseum, and among the neighbouring ruins till dinner time. I climbed up the western side of the Coliseum, at the imminent hazard of my neck; and looking down through a gaping aperture, on the brink of which I had accidentally seated myself, I saw in the colossal corridor far below me, a young artist, who, as if transported out of his senses by delight and admiration, was making the most extraordinary antics and gestures: sometimes he clasped his hands, then extended his arms, then stood with them folded as in deep thought; now he s.n.a.t.c.hed up his portfolio as if to draw what so much enchanted him, then threw it down and kicked it from him as if in despair. I never saw such admirable dumb show: it was better than any pantomime. At length, however, he happened to cast up his eyes, as if appealing to heaven, and they encountered mine peeping down upon him from above. He stood fixed and motionless for two seconds, staring at me, and then s.n.a.t.c.hing up his portfolio and his hat, ran off and disappeared. I met the same man afterwards walking along the Via Felice, and could not help smiling as he pa.s.sed: he smiled too, but pulled his hat over his face and turned away.

I discovered to-day (and it is no slight pleasure to make a discovery for one's self), the pa.s.sage which formed the communication between the Coliseum and the Palace of the Caesars, and in which the Emperor Commodus was a.s.sa.s.sinated. I recognized it by its situation, and the mosaic pavement described by Nibby. If I had time I might moralize here, and make an eloquent tirade _a la Eustace_ about imperial monsters and so forth,--but in fact I _did_ think while I stood in the damp and gloomy corridor, that it was a fitting death for Commodus to die by the giddy playfulness of a child, and the machinations of an abandoned woman. It was not a favourable time or hour to contemplate the Coliseum--the suns.h.i.+ne was too resplendent--

It was a garish, broad, and peering day, Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears; And every little corner, nook, and hole, Was penetrated by the insolent light.

We are told that five thousand animals were slain in the amphitheatre on its dedication--how dreadful! The mutual ma.s.sacres of the gladiators inspire less horror than this disgusting butchery! To what a pitch must the depraved appet.i.te for blood and death have risen among the corrupted and ferocious populace, before such a sight could be endured!

15.--We drove to-day to the tomb of Cecilia Metella, on the Appian Way, to the Fountain of Egeria, and the tomb of the Scipios near the Porta Cappena.

I wish the tomb of Cecilia Metella had been that of Cornelia or Valeria. There may be little in a name, but how much there is in a.s.sociation! What this ma.s.sy fabric wanted in cla.s.sical fame Lord Byron has lately supplied in poetical interest. The same may be said of the Fountain of Egeria, to which he has devoted some of the most exquisite stanzas in his poem, and has certainly invested it with a charm it could not have possessed before. The woods and groves which once surrounded it, have been all cut down, and the scenery round it is waste and bleak; but the fountain itself is pretty, overgrown with ivy, moss, and the graceful capillaire plant (capello di venere) drooping from the walls, and the stream is as pure as crystal. L**, who was with us, took up a stone to break off a piece of the statue, and maimed, defaced, and wretched as it is, I could not help thinking it a profanation to the place, and stopped his hand, calling him a _barbarous Vand.y.k.e_: he looked so awkwardly alarmed and puzzled by the epithet I had given him! The ident.i.ty of this spot (like all other places here) has been vehemently disputed. At every step to-day we encountered doubt, and contradiction, and cavilling: authorities are marshalled against each other in puzzling array, and the modern unwillingness to be cheated by fine sounds and great names has become a general scepticism. I have no objection to the "shadows, doubts, and darkness" which rest upon all around us; it rather pleases my fancy thus to "dream over the map of things," abandoned to my own cogitations and my own conclusions; but then there are certain points upon which it is very disagreeable to have one's faith disturbed; and the Fountain of Egeria is one of these. So leaving the more learned antiquarians to fight it out, _secundum artem_, and fire each other's wigs if they will, I am determined, and do steadfastly believe, that the Fountain of Egeria I saw to-day is the very identical and original Fountain of Egeria--of Numa's Egeria--and therefore it _is_ so.

The tomb of the Scipios is a dirty dark wine cellar: all the urns, the fine sarcophagus, and the original tablets and inscriptions have been removed to the Vatican. I thought to-day while I stood in the sepulchre, and on the very spot whence the sarcophagus of Publius was removed, if Scipio, or Augustus, or Adrian, could return to this world, how would their Roman pride endure to see their last resting-places, the towers and the pyramids in which they fortified themselves, thus violated and put to ign.o.ble uses, and the urns which contained their ashes stuck up as ornaments in a painted room, where barbarian visitors lounge away their hours, and stare upon their relics with scornful indifference or idle curiosity!

The people here, even the lowest and meanest among them seem to have imbibed a profound respect for antiquity and antiquities, which sometimes produces a comic effect. I am often amused by the exultation with which they point out a bit of old stone, or piece of brick wall, or shapeless fragment of some nameless statue, and tell you it is _antico, molto, antico_, and the half contemptuous tone in which they praise the most beautiful modern production, _e moderna--ma pure non e cativa!_