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Margaret Fuller Ossoli - At Home And Abroad

M >> Margaret Fuller Ossoli >> At Home And Abroad




The same week came the natal day of Rome. A great dinner was given at
the Baths of Titus, in the open air. The company was on the grass in
the area; the music at one end; boxes filled with the handsome Roman
women occupied the other sides. It was a new thing here, this popular
dinner, and the Romans greeted it in an intoxication of hope and
pleasure. Sterbini, author of "The Vestal," presided: many others,
like him, long time exiled and restored to their country by the
present Pope, were at the tables. The Colosseum, and triumphal arches
were in sight; an effigy of the Roman wolf with her royal nursling
was erected on high; the guests, with shouts and music, congratulated
themselves on the possession, in Pius IX., of a new and nobler founder
for another state. Among the speeches that of the Marquis d'Azeglio,
a man of literary note in Italy, and son-in-law of Manzoni, contained
this passage (he was sketching the past history of Italy):--

"The crown passed to the head of a German monarch; but he wore it not
to the benefit, but the injury, of Christianity,--of the world. The
Emperor Henry was a tyrant who wearied out the patience of God. God
said to Rome, 'I give you the Emperor Henry'; and from these hills
that surround us, Hildebrand, Pope Gregory VII., raised his austere
and potent voice to say to the Emperor, 'God did not give you Italy
that you might destroy her,' and Italy, Germany, Europe, saw her
butcher prostrated at the feet of Gregory in penitence. Italy,
Germany, Europe, had then kindled in the heart the first spark of
liberty."

The narrative of the dinner passed the censor, and was published: the
Ambassador of Austria read it, and found, with a modesty and candor
truly admirable, that this passage was meant to allude to his Emperor.
He must take his passports, if such home thrusts are to be made. And
so the paper was seized, and the account of the dinner only told from,
mouth to mouth, from those who had already read it. Also the idea of a
dinner for the Pope's fete-day is abandoned, lest something too frank
should again be said; and they tell me here, with a laugh, "I fancy
you have assisted at the first and last popular dinner." Thus we may
see that the liberty of Rome does not yet advance with seven-leagued
boots; and the new Romulus will need to be prepared for deeds at least
as bold as his predecessor, if he is to open a new order of things.

I cannot well wind up my gossip on this subject better than by
translating a passage from the programme of the _Contemporaneo_, which
represents the hope of Rome at this moment. It is conducted by men of
well-known talent.

"The _Contemporaneo_ (Contemporary) is a journal of progress, but
tempered, as the good and wise think best, in conformity with the
will of our best of princes, and the wants and expectations of the
public....

"Through discussion it desires to prepare minds to receive reforms so
soon and far as they are favored by the law of _opportunity_.

"Every attempt which is made contrary to this social law must fail. It
is vain to hope fruits from a tree out of season, and equally in vain
to introduce the best measures into a country not prepared to receive
them."

And so on. I intended to have translated in full the programme,
but time fails, and the law of opportunity does not favor, as my
"opportunity" leaves for London this afternoon. I have given enough to
mark the purport of the whole. It will easily be seen that it was
not from the platform assumed by the _Contemporaneo_ that Lycurgus
legislated, or Socrates taught,--that the Christian religion was
propagated, or the Church, was reformed by Luther. The opportunity
that the martyrs found here in the Colosseum, from whose blood grew
up this great tree of Papacy, was not of the kind waited for by these
moderate progressists. Nevertheless, they may be good schoolmasters
for Italy, and are not to be disdained in these piping times of peace.

More anon, of old and new, from Tuscany.




LETTER XV.

ITALY.--FRUITS AND FLOWERS ON THE ROUTE FROM FLORENCE TO ROME.--THE
PLAIN OF UMBRIA.--ASSISI.--THE SAINTS.--TUITION IN SCHOOLS.--PIUS
IX.--THE ETRURIAN TOMB.--PERUGIA AND ITS STORES OF EARLY
ART.--PORTRAITS OF RAPHAEL.--FLORENCE.--THE GRAND DUKE AND HIS
POLICY.--THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS AND ITS INFLUENCE.--THE AMERICAN
SCULPTORS.--GREENOUGH AND HIS NEW WORKS.--POWERS.--HIS STATUE OF
CALHOUN.--REVIEW OF HIS ENDEAVORS.--THE FESTIVALS OF ST. JOHN AT
FLORENCE.--BOLOGNA.--FEMALE PROFESSORS IN ITS UNIVERSITY.--MATILDA
TAMBRONI AND OTHERS.--MILAN AND HER FEMALE MATHEMATICIAN.--THE STATE
OF WOMAN IN ITALY.--RAVENNA AND BYRON.--VENICE.--THE ADDA.--MILAN AND
ITS NEIGHBORHOOD, AND MANZONI.--EXCITEMENTS.--NATIONAL AFFAIRS.


Milan, August 9, 1847.

Since leaving Rome, I have not been able to steal a moment from
the rich and varied objects before me to write about them. I will,
therefore, take a brief retrospect of the ground.

I passed from Florence to Rome by the Perugia route, and saw for the
first time the Italian vineyards. The grapes hung in little clusters.
When I return, they will be full of light and life, but the fields
will not be so enchantingly fresh, nor so enamelled with flowers.

The profusion of red poppies, which dance on every wall and glitter
throughout the grass, is a great ornament to the landscape. In full
sunlight their vermilion is most beautiful. Well might Ceres gather
_such_ poppies to mingle with her wheat.

We climbed the hill to Assisi, and my ears thrilled as with many old
remembered melodies, when an old peasant, in sonorous phrase, bade
me look out and see the plain of Umbria. I looked back and saw
the carriage toiling up the steep path, drawn by a pair of those
light-colored oxen Shelley so much admired. I stood near the spot
where Goethe met with a little adventure, which he has described with
even more than his usual delicate humor. Who can ever be alone for a
moment in Italy? Every stone has a voice, every grain of dust seems
instinct with spirit from the Past, every step recalls some line, some
legend of long-neglected lore.

Assisi was exceedingly charming to me. So still!--all temporal noise
and bustle seem hushed down yet by the presence of the saint. So
clean!--the rains of heaven wash down all impurities into the valley.
I must confess that, elsewhere, I have shared the feelings of Dickens
toward St. Francis and St. Sebastian, as the "Mounseer Tonsons" of
Catholic art. St. Sebastian I have not been so tired of, for the
beauty and youth of the figure make the monotony with which the
subject of his martyrdom is treated somewhat less wearisome. But St.
Francis is so sad, and so ecstatic, and so brown, so entirely the
monk,--and St. Clara so entirely the nun! I have been very sorry for
her that he was able to draw her from the human to the heavenly life;
she seems so sad and so worn out by the effort. But here at Assisi,
one cannot help being penetrated by the spirit that flowed from that
life. Here is the room where his father shut up the boy to punish his
early severity of devotion. Here is the picture which represents him
despoiled of all outward things, even his garments,--devoting himself,
body and soul, to the service of God in the way he believed most
acceptable. Here is the underground chapel, where rest those weary
bones, saluted by the tears of so many weary pilgrims who have come
hither to seek strength from his example. Here are the churches above,
full of the works of earlier art, animated by the contagion of a great
example. It is impossible not to bow the head, and feel how mighty an
influence flows from a single soul, sincere in its service of truth,
in whatever form that truth comes to it.

A troop of neat, pretty school-girls attended us about, going with
us into the little chapels adorned with pictures which open at every
corner of the streets, smiling on us at a respectful distance. Some of
them were fourteen or fifteen years old. I found reading, writing, and
sewing were all they learned at their school; the first, indeed, they
knew well enough, if they could ever get books to use it on. Tranquil
as Assisi was, on every wall was read _Viva Pio IX.!_ and we found the
guides and workmen in the shop full of a vague hope from him. The old
love which has made so rich this aerial cradle of St. Francis glows
warm as ever in the breasts of men; still, as ever, they long for
hero-worship, and shout aloud at the least appearance of an object.

The church at the foot of the hill, Santa Maria degli Angeli, seems
tawdry after Assisi. It also is full of records of St. Francis, his
pains and his triumphs. Here, too, on a little chapel, is the famous
picture by Overbeck; too exact a copy, but how different in effect
from the early art we had just seen above! Harmonious but frigid,
grave but dull; childhood is beautiful, but not when continued, or
rather transplanted, into the period where we look for passion, varied
means, and manly force.

Before reaching Perugia, I visited an Etrurian tomb, which is a little
way off the road; it is said to be one of the finest in Etruria. The
hill-side is full of them, but excavations are expensive, and not
frequent. The effect of this one was beyond my expectations; in it
were several female figures, very dignified and calm, as the dim
lamp-light fell on them by turns. The expression of these figures
shows that the position of woman in these states was noble. Their
eagles' nests cherished well the female eagle who kept watch in the
eyrie.

Perugia too is on a noble hill. What a daily excitement such a view,
taken at every step! life is worth ten times as much in a city so
situated. Perugia is full, overflowing, with the treasures of early
art. I saw them so rapidly it seems now as if in a trance, yet
certainly with a profit, a manifold gain, such as Mahomet thought he
gained from his five minutes' visits to other spheres. Here are two
portraits of Raphael as a youth: it is touching to see what effect
this angel had upon all that surrounded him from the very first.

Florence! I was there a month, and in a sense saw Florence: that is to
say, I took an inventory of what is to be seen there, and not without
great intellectual profit. There is too much that is really admirable
in art,--the nature of its growth lies before you too clearly to be
evaded. Of such things more elsewhere.

I do not like Florence as I do cities more purely Italian. The natural
character is ironed out here, and done up in a French pattern; yet
there is no French vivacity, nor Italian either. The Grand Duke--more
and more agitated by the position in which he finds himself between
the influence of the Pope and that of Austria--keeps imploring and
commanding his people to keep still, and they _are_ still and glum
as death. This is all on the outside; within, Tuscany burns. Private
culture has not been in vain, and there is, in a large circle, mental
preparation for a very different state of things from the present,
with an ardent desire to diffuse the same amid the people at large.
The sovereign has been obliged for the present to give more liberty to
the press, and there is an immediate rush of thought to the new vent;
if it is kept open a few months, the effect on the body of the people
cannot fail to be great. I intended to have translated some passages
from the programme of the _Patria_, one of the papers newly started
at Florence, but time fails. One of the articles in the same number by
Lambruschini, on the duties of the clergy at this juncture, contains
views as liberal as can be found in print anywhere in the world. More
of these things when I return to Rome in the autumn, when I hope to
find a little leisure to think over what I have seen, and, if found
worthy, to put the result in writing.

I visited the studios of our sculptors; Greenough has in clay a David
which promises high beauty and nobleness, a bass-relief, full of grace
and tender expression; he is also modelling a head of Napoleon, and
justly enthusiastic in the study. His great group I did not see in
such a state as to be secure of my impression. The face of the Pioneer
is very fine, the form of the woman graceful and expressive; but I was
not satisfied with the Indian. I shall see it more as a whole on my
return to Florence.

As to the Eve and the Greek Slave, I could only join with the rest of
the world in admiration of their beauty and the fine feeling of nature
which they exhibit. The statue of Calhoun is full of power, simple,
and majestic in attitude and expression. In busts Powers seems to
me unrivalled; still, he ought not to spend his best years on an
employment which cannot satisfy his ambition nor develop his powers.
If our country loves herself, she will order from him some great work
before the prime of his genius has been frittered away, and his best
years spent on lesser things.

I saw at Florence the festivals of St. John, but they are poor affairs
to one who has seen the Neapolitan and Roman people on such occasions.

Passing from Florence, I came to Bologna,--learned Bologna; indeed an
Italian city, full of expression, of physiognomy, so to speak. A woman
should love Bologna, for there has the spark of intellect in woman
been cherished with reverent care. Not in former ages only, but in
this, Bologna raised a woman who was worthy to the dignities of its
University, and in their Certosa they proudly show the monument to
Matilda Tambroni, late Greek Professor there. Her letters, preserved
by her friends, are said to form a very valuable collection. In their
anatomical hall is the bust of a woman, Professor of Anatomy. In Art
they have had Properzia di Rossi, Elizabetta Sirani, Lavinia Fontana,
and delight to give their works a conspicuous place.

In other cities the men alone have their _Casino dei Nobili_, where
they give balls, _conversazioni_, and similar entertainments. Here
women have one, and are the soul of society.

In Milan, also, I see in the Ambrosian Library the bust of a female
mathematician. These things make me feel that, if the state of woman
in Italy is so depressed, yet a good-will toward a better is not
wholly wanting. Still more significant is the reverence to the Madonna
and innumerable female saints, who, if, like St. Teresa, they had
intellect as well as piety, became counsellors no less than comforters
to the spirit of men.

Ravenna, too, I saw, and its old Christian art, the Pineta, where
Byron loved to ride, and the paltry apartments where, cheered by a new
affection, in which was more of tender friendship than of passion, he
found himself less wretched than at beautiful Venice or stately Genoa.

All the details of this visit to Ravenna are pretty. I shall write
them out some time. Of Padua, too, the little to be said should be
said in detail.

Of Venice and its enchanted life I could not speak; it should only
be echoed back in music. There only I began to feel in its fulness
Venetian Art. It can only be seen in its own atmosphere. Never had I
the least idea of what is to be seen at Venice. It seems to me as if
no one ever yet had seen it,--so entirely wanting is any expression
of what I felt myself. Venice! on this subject I shall not write much
till time, place, and mode agree to make it fit.

Venice, where all is past, is a fit asylum for the dynasties of the
Past. The Duchesse de Berri owns one of the finest palaces on the
Grand Canal; the Duc de Bordeaux rents another; Mademoiselle Taglioni
has bought the famous Casa d'Oro, and it is under repair. Thanks to
the fashion which has made Venice a refuge of this kind, the palaces,
rarely inhabited by the representatives of their ancient names, are
valuable property, and the noble structures will not be suffered
to lapse into the sea, above which they rose so proudly.
The restorations, too, are made with excellent taste and
judgment,--nothing is spoiled. Three of these fine palaces are now
hotels, so that the transient visitor can enjoy from their balconies
all the wondrous shows of the Venetian night and day as much as any
of their former possessors did. I was at the Europa, formerly the
Giustiniani Palace, with better air than those on the Grand Canal, and
a more unobstructed view than Danieli's.

Madame de Berri gave an entertainment on the birthnight of her son,
and the old Duchesse d'Angouleme came from Vienna to attend it. 'T
was a scene of fairy-land, the palace full of light, so that from the
canal could be seen even the pictures on the walls. Landing from the
gondolas, the elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen seemed to rise
from the water; we also saw them glide up the great stair, rustling
their plumes, and in the reception-rooms make and receive the
customary grimaces. A fine band stationed on the opposite side of the
canal played the while, and a flotilla of gondolas lingered there to
listen. I, too, amid, the mob, a pleasant position in Venice alone,
thought of the Stuarts, Bourbons, Bonapartes, here in Italy, and
offered up a prayer that other names, when the possessors have power
without the heart to use it for the emancipation of mankind, might he
added to the list, and other princes, more rich in blood than brain,
might come to enjoy a perpetual _villeggiatura_ in Italy. It did not
seem to me a cruel wish. The show of greatness will satisfy every
legitimate desire of such minds. A gentle punishment for the
distributors of _letters de cachet_ and Spielberg dungeons to their
fellow-men.

Having passed more than a fortnight at Venice, I have come here,
stopping at Vicenza, Verona, Mantua, Lago di Garda, Brescia.
Certainly I have learned more than ever in any previous ten days of my
existence, and have formed an idea what is needed for the study of Art
and its history in these regions. To be sure, I shall never have time
to follow it up, but it is a delight to look up those glorious vistas,
even when there is no hope of entering them.

A violent shower obliged me to stop on the way. It was late at night,
and I was nearly asleep, when, roused by the sound of bubbling waters,
I started up and asked, "Is that the Adda?" and it was. So deep is
the impression made by a simple natural recital, like that of Renzo's
wanderings in the _Promessi Sposi_, that the memory of his hearing the
Adda in this way occurred to me at once, and the Adda seemed familiar
as if I had been a native of this region.

As the Scottish lakes seem the domain of Walter Scott, so does Milan
and its neighborhood in the mind of a foreigner belong to Manzoni. I
have seen him since, the gentle lord of this wide domain; his hair is
white, but his eyes still beam as when he first saw the apparitions of
truth, simple tenderness, and piety which he has so admirably recorded
for our benefit. Those around lament that the fastidiousness of his
taste prevents his completing and publishing more, and that thus
a treasury of rare knowledge and refined thought will pass from
us without our reaping the benefit. We, indeed, have no title to
complain, what we do possess from his hand is so excellent.

At this moment there is great excitement in Italy. A supposed spy
of Austria has been assassinated at Ferrara, and Austrian troops are
marched there. It is pretended that a conspiracy has been discovered
in Rome; the consequent disturbances have been put down. The National
Guard is forming. All things seem to announce that some important
change is inevitable here, but what? Neither Radicals nor Moderates
dare predict with confidence, and I am yet too much a stranger
to speak with assurance of impressions I have received. But it is
impossible not to hope.




LETTER XVI.

REVIEW OF PAST AND PRESENT.--THE MERITS OF ITALIAN
LITERATURE.--MANZONI.--ITALIAN DIALECTS.--MILAN, THE MILANESE, AND
THE SIMPLICITY OF THEIR LANGUAGE.--THE NORTH OF ITALY, AND A TOUR TO
SWITZERLAND.--ITALIAN LAKES.--MAGGIORE, COMO, AND LUGANO.--LAGO DI
GARDA.--THE BOATMEN OF THE LAKES AND THE GONDOLIERS.--LADY FRANKLIN,
WIDOW OF THE NAVIGATOR.--RETURN TO AND FESTIVALS AT MILAN.--THE
ARCHBISHOP.--AUSTRIAN RULE AND AUSTRIAN POLICY.--THE FUTURE HOPES OF
ITALY.--A GLANCE AT PAVIA, FLORENCE, PARMA, AND BOLOGNA, AND THE WORKS
OF THE MASTERS.


Rome, October, 1847.

I think my last letter was from Milan, and written after I had seen
Manzoni. This was to me a great pleasure. I have now seen the most
important representatives who survive of the last epoch in thought.
Our age has still its demonstrations to make, its heroes and poets to
crown.

Although the modern Italian literature is not poor, as many persons at
a distance suppose, but, on the contrary, surprisingly rich in tokens
of talent, if we consider the circumstances under which it struggles
to exist, yet very few writers have or deserve a European or American
reputation. Where a whole country is so kept down, her best minds
cannot take the lead in the progress of the age; they have too much to
suffer, too much to explain. But among the few who, through depth of
spiritual experience and the beauty of form in which it is expressed,
belong not only to Italy, but to the world, Manzoni takes a high
rank. The passive virtues he teaches are no longer what is wanted; the
manners he paints with so delicate a fidelity are beginning to change;
but the spirit of his works,--the tender piety, the sensibility to the
meaning of every humblest form of life, the delicate humor and satire
so free from disdain,--these are immortal.

Young Italy rejects Manzoni, though not irreverently; Young Italy
prizes his works, but feels that the doctrine of "Pray and wait" is
not for her at this moment,--that she needs a more fervent hope, a
more active faith. She is right.

It is well known that the traveller, if he knows the Italian language
as written in books, the standard Tuscan, still finds himself a
stranger in many parts of Italy, unable to comprehend the dialects,
with their lively abbreviations and witty slang. That of Venice I had
understood somewhat, and could enter into the drollery and _naivete_
of the gondoliers, who, as a class, have an unusual share of
character. But the Milanese I could not at first understand at all.
Their language seemed to me detestably harsh, and their gestures
unmeaning. But after a friend, who possesses that large and ready
sympathy easier found in Italy than anywhere else, had translated for
me verbatim into French some of the poems written in the Milanese,
and then read them aloud in the original, I comprehended the peculiar
inflection of voice and idiom in the people, and was charmed with it,
as one is with the instinctive wit and wisdom of children.

There is very little to see at Milan, compared with any other Italian
city; and this was very fortunate for me, allowing an interval
of repose in the house, which I cannot take when there is so much
without, tempting me to incessant observation and study. I went
through, the North of Italy with a constantly increasing fervor of
interest. When I had thought of Italy, it was always of the South, of
the Roman States, of Tuscany. But now I became deeply interested in
the history, the institutions, the art of the North. The fragments
of the past mark the progress of its waves so clearly, I learned to
understand, to prize them every day more, to know how to make use of
the books about them. I shall have much to say on these subjects some
day.

Leaving Milan, I went on the Lago Maggiore, and afterward into
Switzerland. Of this tour I shall not speak here; it was a beautiful
little romance by itself, and infinitely refreshing to be so near
nature in these grand and simple forms, after so much exciting thought
of Art and Man. The day passed in the St. Bernardin, with its lofty
peaks and changing lights upon the distant snows,--its holy, exquisite
valleys and waterfalls, its stories of eagles and chamois, was the
greatest refreshment I ever experienced: it was bracing as a cold bath
after the heat of a crowd amid which one has listened to some most
eloquent oration.

Returning from Switzerland, I passed a fortnight on the Lake of
Como, and afterward visited Lugano. There is no exaggeration in the
enthusiastic feeling with which artists and poets have viewed these
Italian lakes. Their beauties are peculiar, enchanting, innumerable.
The Titan of Richter, the Wanderjahre of Goethe, the Elena of Taylor,
the pictures of Turner, had not prepared me for the visions of beauty
that daily entranced the eyes and heart in those regions. To our
country Nature has been most bounteous; but we have nothing in the
same kind that can compare with these lakes, as seen under the Italian
heaven. As to those persons who have pretended to discover that the
effects of light and atmosphere were no finer than they found in our
own lake scenery, I can only say that they must be exceedingly obtuse
in organization,--a defect not uncommon among Americans.

Nature seems to have labored to express her full heart in as many
ways as possible, when she made these lakes, moulded and planted their
shores. Lago Maggiore is grand, resplendent in Its beauty; the view of
the Alps gives a sort of lyric exaltation to the scene. Lago di Garda
is so soft and fair,--so glittering sweet on one side, the ruins of
ancient palaces rise so softly with the beauties of that shore; but
at the other end, amid the Tyrol, it is sublime, calm, concentrated
in its meaning. Como cannot be better described in general than in the
words of Taylor:

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