Complete Works of Mary Shelley

by Mary Shelley

  While thus every passion, bad and good, ferments — a touch is given, and up springs armed revolt. This must be put down or the peace of Europe will be disturbed. Peace is a lovely thing. It is horrible to image the desolation of war; the cottage burnt, the labour of the husbandman destroyed — outrage and death there, where security of late spread smiles and joy: — and the fertility and beauty of Italy exaggerate still more the hideousness of the contrast. Cannot it be that peaceful mediation and a strong universal sense of justice may interpose, instead of the cannon and bayonet?

  There is another view to be taken. We have lately been accustomed to look on Italy as a discontented province of Austria, forgetful that her supremacy dates only from the downfall of Napoleon. From the invasion of Charles VIII. till 1815, Italy has been a battle-field, where the Spaniard, the French, and the German, have fought for mastery; and we are blind indeed, if we do not see that such will occur again, at least among the two last. Supposing a war to arise between them, one of the first acts of aggression on the part of France would be to try to drive the Germans from Italy. Even if peace continue, it is felt that the papal power is tottering to its fall — it is only supported, because the French will not allow Austria to extend her dominions, and the Austrian is eager to prevent any change that may afford pretence for the French to interfere. Did the present pope act with any degree of prudence, his power thus propped might last some time longer; but as it is, who can say, how soon, for the sake of peace in the rest of Italy, it may not be necessary to curtail his territories.

  The French feel this and begin to dream of dominion across the Alps — the occupation of Ancona was a feeler put out — it gained no positive object except to check Austria — for the rest its best effect was to reiterate the lesson they have often taught, that no faith should be given to their promises of liberation.

  The Italians consider that the hour will arrive sooner or later when the stranger will again dispute for dominion over them; when the peace of their wealthy towns and smiling villages will be disturbed by nations meeting in hostility on their soil. The efforts of their patriots consequently tend to make preparation, that such an hour may find them, from the Alps to Brundusium, united. They feel the necessity also of numbering military leaders among themselves. The most enlightened Italians instead of relying on the mystery of oaths, the terror of assassination, the perpetual conspiracy of secret associations, are anxious that their young men should exercise themselves in some school of warfare — they wish that the new generation may be emancipated by their courage, their knowledge, their virtues; which should oppose an insurmountable barrier to foreign invasion and awe their rulers into concession.

  Niccolini, in his latest work, Arnaldo da Brescia, has put these sentiments in the mouth of his hero. That poem, replete with passionate eloquence and striking incident, presents a lively picture of the actual state of Italy. The insolence of the German, the arrogance of the popes, the degraded state of the people, and the aspirations of the patriots, each find a voice. It is impossible not to hope well for a country, whose poets, whose men of reflection and talent, without one exception, all use the gifts of genius or knowledge, to teach the noblest lessons of devotion to their country; and whose youth receive the same with devoted enthusiasm.

  When we visit Italy, we become what the Italians were censured for being, — enjoyers of the beauties of nature, the elegance of art, the delights of climate, the recollections of the past, and the pleasures of society, without a thought beyond. Such to a great degree was I while there, and my book does not pretend to be a political history or dissertation. I give fragments — not a whole. Such as they are, I shall be repaid for the labour and anxiety of putting them together, if they induce some among my countrymen to regard with greater attention, and to sympathise in the struggles of a country, the most illustrious and the most unfortunate in the world.

  PART I. — 1840.

  LETTER I.

  Project for spending the Summer on the Banks of the Lake of Como. — Fine Spring-Stormy Weather — Passage from Dover to Calais. — The Diligence. — Paris. — Plan of our Route.

  BRIGHTON, JUNE 13,1840.

  I AM glad to say that our frequent discussions of this spring have terminated in a manner very agreeable to every one concerned in them. My son and his two friends have decided on spending their summer vacation on the shores of the lake of Como — there to study for the degree, which they are to take next winter. They wish me to accompany them, and I gladly consent.

  Can it, indeed, be true, that I am about to revisit Italy? How many years are gone since I quitted that country! There I left the mortal remains of those beloved — my husband and my children, whose loss changed my whole existence, substituting, for happy peace and the interchange of deep-rooted affections, years of deep-rooted solitude, and a hard struggle with the world; which only now, as my son is growing up, is brightening into a better day The name of Italy has magic in its very syllables. The hope of seeing it again recalls vividly to my memory that time, when misfortune seemed an empty word, and my habitation on earth a secure abode, which no evil could shake. Graves have opened in my path since then; and instead of the cheerfulness of the living, I have dwelt among the early tombs of those I loved. Now a new generation has sprung up; and at the name of Italy, I grow young again in their enjoyments, and gladly prepare to share them.

  What a divine spring we have had! during the month of April not a drop of rain fell — the sun shone perpetually — the foliage, rich and bright, lent, before its time, thick shadows to the woods. No place is more suited than Richmond where to enjoy the smiles of so extraordinary a season. I spent many hours of every day on the Thames — days as balmy as midsummer, and animated with the young life which makes fine weather in spring more delicious than that to be enjoyed in any other season of the year: then the earth is an altar, from which fresh perfumes are for ever rising — not the rank odours of the autumnal fall, but those attendant on the first bursting of life, on the tendency of nature in spring-tide to multiply and enjoy. I visited Hampton Court, and saw the Cartoons — those most noble works of the Prince of Painters. All was delightful; and ten times more so, that I was about to break a chain that had long held me — cross the Channel — and wander far towards a country which memory painted as a paradise.

  We are to leave England at the conclusion of the Cambridge term, and have agreed to rendezvous at Paris in the middle of June. Towards the end of May I come here, intending at the appointed time to cross to Dieppe. The weather, at first, continued delightful; but after a time a change has come, and June is set in cold, misty, and stormy. A morbid horror of my sea-voyage comes over me which I cannot control. On the day on which we were to cross, I had an attack of illness which prevented my going on board. It becomes a question whether we shall remain for the next packet in the middle of next week, with the chance of a long, tempestuous passage, or proceed along the coast to Dover. I prefer the latter.

  Paris,June 22.

  WE left Brighton for Hastings, and arrived on a fine evening; the sea was calm and glorious beneath the setting sun. On our way we drove through St. Leonard’s-on-Sea. Some years ago I had visited Hastings, when a brig, drawn high and dry on the shore near William the Conqueror’s stone, unloading building materials, was all that told of the future existence of this new town. It has risen “like an exhalation,” and seems particularly clean, bright, and cheerful.

  The next day blew a fierce tempest; our drive to Dover was singularly inclement and disagreeable. We arrived in the evening, very tired and uncomfortable; a gale from the north-west raged, and the sea, wild and drear, broke in vast surges on the shore; the following morning it rained in torrents, as well as blew. The day after, however, the sun shone bright, and the waves sparkled and danced beneath its early rays. We were on the beach by seven, and reached the steamer in a small boat, one of the annoyances attendant on embarking at Dover. We had a rough passage — for some half way over the wind grew into a gale;
I lay down on deck, and by keeping very still, escaped sickness: in two hours and a half we were on the French coast. Why we left Dover so early I cannot tell, since the tide did not serve to admit us into Calais harbour for an hour after our arrival — an hour of disagreeable tossing; at last, happy sight, the fishing boats were seen coming out from the port, giving token that there was water enough for us to enter. We landed. I was quite well immediately, and laughed at my panic.

  We went to Roberts’s Hotel, a very good one, and the charges moderate, I made my first experiment at a table d’hôte, and disliked its noise and numbers very much. We were to proceed to Paris by the diligence, a disagreeable style of travelling, but the only one we could manage. We have forgotten night-travelling in England — thanks to the railroads, to which, whatever their faults may be, I feel eternally grateful; for many a new scene have they enabled me to visit, and much of the honey of delightful recollections have I, by their means, brought back to my hive: a pleasant day it will be when there is one from Calais to Paris. We left Calais at about ten in the forenoon. P. chose the banquette, as young Englishmen are apt to do; it resembles, more than any other part of this ponderous vehicle, the outside of a stage-coach. There were some merry Irish students there also, who could not speak a word of French: they leapt down from the top at every possible opportunity, so to tease the conducteur, who, to his flock of travellers, acts as shepherd and dog in one — gathering them together with the bark of, “En route, Messieurs!” most authoritatively. I and my maid were in the interieur, with two Frenchwomen from England: one was a governess at a school, coming for a holiday; she was young, and her eyes were accustomed to the English style; she found fault with the diligence. The elder one would not allow any fault; and, if there were any deficiency, it was because things were not first-rate on this road. The road to Bordeaux was the grand one: the diligences there were Lord Mayors’ carriages for splendour. The longest day has an end, and our hours of penance came to a close. We arrived in Paris, and found pleasant apartments taken for us at Hotel Chatham. Travelling by diligence had been an experiment for me. I was delighted to find that, with all my nervous suffering, whenever my mind was intensely or disagreeably occupied, I could bear the fatigues of a journey far better than I had ever done. Several years before I had been a bad traveller; and, even in a comfortable English travelling chariot, suffered great fatigue, and even illness. When I returned from Italy I had tried the diligence, and been knocked up, and obliged to abandon it after the first night; yet then I enjoyed perfect health. Now I complained, and with reason, of most painful sensations; yet the fatigue I endured seemed to take away weariness instead of occasioning it. I felt light of limb and in good spirits. On the shores of France I shook the dust of accumulated cares from off me; I forgot disappointments, and banished sorrow: weariness of body replaced beneficially weariness of soul — so much heavier, so much harder to bear.

  There is a cheerfulness in the aspect of Paris, that at once enlivens the visitor. True, the want of trottoirs is intolerable. From the absence of drains, the state of the streets is filthy; the danger of being run over by hack-cabs, which turn short round the corners, and accelerate their pace on purpose so to do, is imminent. The gravel of the Tuilleries and the Champs Elysées is not half so inviting as the sward of Hyde Park; yet there is an air of cheerfulness and lightsomeness about Paris, which seems to take the burthen from your spirits, which will weigh so heavily on the other side of the Channel. Nor, perhaps, in any city in the world is there a scene more magnifique — to use their own word in their own sense — than the view at high noon or sunset from the terrace of the Tuilleries, near the river, overlooking the Seine and its bridges; the Place de la Concorde, with its wide asphaltic pavements, sparkling fountains, and fantastic lanterns, looking on to the Barrière de l’Etoile one way, or down upon the horse-chesnut avenues of the gardens on the other. There is gaiety, animation, life; you cannot find the same in London. Why? One cause, of course, is the smoke of the sea-coal fires; another results from the absence of fountains. When will London have these ornaments, which could be so readily constructed from our great supply of water? Truly in France the water is all used ornamentally, and there is a sad deficiency for utility; but the coup-d’oeil of a fountain is more pleasing than the consciousness of a pipe underground — at least, to the passing traveller.

  We have spent a week agreeably in Paris, as we have several friends here. Our two companions are arrived. We are seriously preparing to set out on our travels. The lake of Como is our destination, and we have put the general guidance of our route into the hands of one of the party. I was a little startled when I was told that I was to reach Como viâ Franckfôrt; this is something like going to the Line by the North Pole; but I am assured that the journey will be the more delightful and novel. I was shown our way on the map — Metz to Trêves; then down the Moselle — unhacknied ground, or rather water — to Coblentz; up the Rhine to Mayence; Franckfort, and the line south through Heidelberg, Baden Baden, Freyburg, Schaffhausen, Zurich, the Splugen, Chiavenna, to the lake of Como, These are nearly all new scenes to me. The portion of the Rhine we were to navigate I longed to revisit after an interval of many years. So this route being agreed upon, we have taken our places in the diligence for Metz.

  I feel a good deal of the gipsy coming upon me, now that I am leaving Paris. I bid adieu to all acquaintance, and set out to wander in new lands, surrounded by companions fresh to the world, unacquainted with its sorrows, and who enjoy with zest every passing amusement. I myself, apt to be too serious, but easily awakened to sympathy, forget the past and the future, and am ready to be amused by all I see as much or even more than they. Among acquaintance, in the every-day scenes of life, want of means brings with it mortification, to embitter still more the perpetual necessity of self-denial. In society you are weighed with others according to your extrinsic possessions; your income, your connexions, your position, make all the weight — you yourself are a mere feather in the scale. But what are these to me now? My home is the readiest means of conveyance I can command, or the inn at which I shall remain at night — my only acquaintance the companions of my wanderings — the single business of my life to enjoy the passing scene.

  LETTER II

  Journey to Metz. — A Day spent at Metz. — Proceed to Trêves. — Enter Prussia. — Trêves. — Voyage down the Moselle. — Slow Steam-boat up the Rhine to Mayence. — Railroad to Franckfort.

  THURSDAY, 25TH JUNE.

  WE left Paris on the 25th of June, at six in the evening, and were thirty-seven hours reaching Metz, a distance of about two hundred miles, stopping only for half an hour at a time, and that only twice during the one day we were on the road. I suffered excessive fatigue during the two nights of this journey, partly on account of a cough I caught at Paris; but my health was not in the slightest degree hurt. The weather was very fine; the country we passed through was beautiful, abundant in com and vines, then in midsummer luxuriance. There was a portion of those dull vast plains, so usual in France; but for the most part the country was varied into hill and dale, arable and forest land. The season setting in so genially in early spring, joined to the refreshing rains which have since succeeded, have caused rich promise of abundance to appear everywhere. I never remember feeling so intimately how bounteous a mother is this fair earth, yielding such plenteous store of food to her children, and this food in its growth so beautiful to look on. How full of gratitude and love for the Creator does the beauty of the creation make us! By a sort of slovenly reasoning, we tell ourselves that, since we are born, sustenance is our due; but that all beyond — the beauty of the world, and the sensations of transport it imparts, springs from the immeasurable goodness of our Maker. True we were also created to experience those emotions. God has not reduced our dwelling-place — as Puritans would his — to a bare meeting-house; all there is radiant in glorious colours; all imparts supreme felicity to the senses and the heart. Next to the consciousness of right and honour, God has s
hown that he loves best beauty and the sense of beauty, since he has endowed the visible universe so richly with the one, and made the other so keen and deep-seated an enjoyment in the hearts of his creatures.

  We passed through Chalons-sur-Marne, Clermont, and Verdun. The corn-fields, the vineyards clothing the uplands, the woods that varied the landscape, and the meandering river that gave it light and life, were all in their fairest summer dress. Plenty and peace brooded over a happy land. From a traveller in a diligence no more detailed description of city, village, or scenery, can be expected. I will only add, that this was by far the most agreeable part of France I had ever traversed.

  SATURDAY, 27th.

  WE had been told at Paris that we should arrive at Metz in time for the diligence to Trêves. Out of England one does not expect exactness; still it was provoking, as we wanted to get on, to find, when arriving at seven in the morning, that the diligence had started at six. We needed rest, certainly; and so made up our minds to endure with equanimity the necessity we were under of not fatiguing ourselves to death from a principle of economy. The inn was tolerable, and the table (d’hôte sufficiently good; and, best praise, quietly served, Metz is a clean, pleasant town, a little dull or so; but from the gardens on the ramparts we commanded a view of the hill-surrounded plain in which it is built, with the Moselle flowing peaceably at our feet. We hired a boat, and loitered several hours delightfully on the river; but being without a boatman, found difficulty in discovering the main stream amidst a labyrinth of canals and mill-dams. Afterwards, we walked in the public gardens, which would have been pleasant, but for the foreign style of gravel, which is not gravel, but shingle; smooth turf and a velvet sward are never found out of England: they don’t know what grass means abroad, except to feed horses and cows. The weather meanwhile was fine, the air balmy; it was a day of agreeable idleness.