Complete Works of Mary Shelley

by Mary Shelley

  We slept at Neumarkt, called in Italian, Egna, We had left our beautiful valley here; and, as is too often the case, in a region of transition from mountain to plain, the soil is marshy and the district unhealthy. There was a large, new-built, clean hotel at Neumarkt; but though the rooms were good, the living was intolerably bad, so that we went nearly supperless to bed.

  Tuesday, September 13TH.

  STILL we approached Italy; the hills were covered with vines, the road shut in by the walls of vineyards. Various valleys branch off at intervals, all affording the scenery peculiar to the Tyrol. I own I had no desire to linger longer in this land: we had continued for so many days among ravines, defiles, and narrow valleys, peering up at the sky from the depths between mountains, that the eye grew eager for a view of heaven, and yearned to behold a more extensive horizon. When the bourne of a journey lies beyond, the desire to linger, even in beautiful scenery, is weak. Since I had left Gmunden and Salzburg I had experienced no desire to stop short.

  Some names of cities are so familiar, that one forms an idea of them in one’s mind as one does of a celebrated, but personally unknown, individual. The Council of Trent is associated with cardinals and bishops — shepherds of the church, legislators of religion: there was something princely, yet holy, in its idea. What we saw of it looked miserably dirty; grand at a distance and beautifully situated, on entering it, it was common-place; but, after all, nothing can be more deceptive than the impression a way-worn traveller receives, driven, perhaps, through the meanest streets to an hotel where, fatigued, body and mind, he reposes, and then is off again. Mr. P — sought out the cathedral and the organ, but the organist declared that the instrument was out of tune, whether from laziness or not, I cannot say. The hotel was good; we dined at the table d’hôte. Again I was restored to the privilege of speech, as Italian here is as common as German.

  Our compact with our lohn kutschers ceased at Trent. We paid them 140 Bavarian florins, and gave them 30 swanzigers as drink-gelt; a swanziger is the third of an Austrian florin, its worth is eightpence English, and is a very intelligible and convenient coin. The men were satisfied and we had no reason to be otherwise: their conduct had been, on the whole, negative — sullen and silent; and yet with a latent violence and insolence which peeped out as a rank weed on a grassless plain, strangely, unexpectedly, and by no means welcome; I believe they thought of nothing but their drink-gelt the whole way. I was much more interested in the horses, who had done their duty rather better.

  We had now to look out for a conveyance to Riva, the town at the head of the Lago di Garda, where we are to find the steam-boat, which is to convey us to its southern shores. We engaged a calèche and a caratella for twenty-two Austrian florins, and were soon on our way. We were in high spirits on having parted with our Germans, and on finding ourselves on the very verge of Italy. I do not pretend to say that this is a correct feeling; but it was natural, considering our ignorance of German. The valley of the Adige is very grand; and the stream, broad and swift, was more of a river than we had seen since the Danube. Several valleys branch off here; and there is another route to Venice. We were sorry not to see the famous Slovino di San Marco, or avalanche of stone, near Serravalle, celebrated by Dante, who was for some time a guest at the Castello Lizzana; where, exiled from Florence, he was entertained by the lord of Castelbarco.

  At Roveredo we changed horses: our road, always on the descent, now became exceedingly precipitous, and ran on the very edge of the steep bank of the Adige. Our drivers were strange fellows. He who drove the calèche in which I sat, was a rough, uncouth animal; but he of the caratella was the most singular — neither Italian nor German in his ways, wild as an untamed animal — coarse and vulgar as a metropolitan vagrant. He was civil enough, indeed; but seemed half-mad with high spirits. You might have thought him half-drunk, but he was not — roaring and singing, and whipping his horses, and turning round to talk to the gentlemen in the caratella with a dare-devil air, I saw him whip his horses into a gallop, and heard him laughing and singing as he dashed down a road, which, in truth, required the drag. It was quite dusk — or rather, but for the stars, dark; which added not a little to the apparent danger. Our driver, a little more tame, yet disdained the drag — and we went down at a rattling pace: I was not sorry, for I was eager to assure myself that our friends in advance were not upset and rolled in the Adige, which rushed at the foot of the rock which our road bounded; — not they, — we reached the bottom, and saw the caratella dashing madly on in the advance. Before or since I never met such fellows; if my friends thought that Italians re r sembled them, they were indeed mistaken; they had none of their innate refinement, but they had their good humour: they were more like what one reads of as the wanderers of the far west — except, we are told, the Americans appear always to calculate, and so perhaps did these fellows; but they had the outward guise of nearly being insane.

  We got to Riva safe. It stands exactly at the head of the Lago di Garda;

  Suso in Italia bella giace un laco,

  Appiè dell’ alpe, che serra Lamagna,

  Sovra Tiralli, ed ha nome Benaco.

  Per mille fonti credo, e più si bagna,

  Tra Garda, e Val Camonica e Apennino

  Dell’ acqua, che nel detto lago stagna.

  The coast, with the exception of the spot on which the town stands, is iron-bound; dark precipices rise abruptly from the water; a bend in the coast limits the view of the lake to a mile or two merely: behind is the chasm of the Adige, beside which Monte Baldo rises, lofty and dark — and mountains somewhat lower — but even they, sublime in altitude, darken the prospect immediately behind Riva. The town is mean and dirty; the inn — not bad to look at, is dirty and uncomfortable. It is kept by a large family; but how different are they from our Cadenabbia people! There are seven sisters — some dress smartly, and sit and receive company, and act the Padrona; others are the Cinderellas of the establishment; but all are lazy and negligent. The beds were not bad, it is true; but the fare was uneatable.

  We had congratulated ourselves that the steam boat, which plies every other day, would leave Riva on the morrow of our arrival; but we found it had not arrived as it ought, and doubts of course hung, as it had not arrived, over the date of its departure.

  WEDNESDAY, 14TH.

  THE morning has come, but no steam-boat. It is detained, we are told, at the other end of the lake by the wind. This assertion seems fabulous; we have no breeze, the waters are glassy: but thus is it with lake Benacus. The wind, coming down the chasms of the mountains, is not felt in the sheltered nook in which Riva is situated; but drives with violence on the southern portion of this vast inland sea, and lashes it into tempest.

  We walked out: there is a path for a short distance on one side under the rock, but the road soon ends; the coast, as I have said, is iron-bound. One of my friends began a sketch of the castle La Rocca, built by the Scaligers, and which forms a picturesque object: then I loitered in the town, delighting my eyes with Italian names and words over the shop-doors. We went out for a short time on the lake, but a shower came on — a drizzle first, which ended in pouring rain. We were truly uncomfortable — forced into the dirty, uncomfortable inn, unprovided with books; and, worst of all, quite uncertain as to the arrival of the steamer. The house is full of travellers similarly situated, and others continually arriving; this does not comfort us. Our madcap drivers of the night before are still here; we have canvassed with them the expense of going by land to Venice, but their demands are exorbitant. We have talked with the boatman, of making the voyage in a large open boat; but the time that this would occupy is evidently uncertain: besides, a lingering remnant of reason assures us that, if the steamer be detained by adverse winds at the other end of the lake, this wind, however favourable, must have raised a sea to endanger our navigation. Our projects, therefore, have only served to cheat time a little, and are given up. Dinner has proved no occupation or relief; it was so singularly and uncomfortably bad, that
it was difficult to eat any portion of it. Now evening has come, and still it rains hard; the many travellers are dispersed about the house in a state of listless anxiety. Another day like this is too fearful a vision: we have ceased even to speak of the chances of release, for we grow hopeless. The people of the inn finding the boat does not arrive, begin to talk of some accident in the machinery; conversation languishes among all the groupes. I sit writing at a window till twilight is thickening into darkness. Hush! a sound — distant — increasing; can it be the splash of paddles? The bend of the lake prevents the boat being seen till quite close at hand; my soul is in my ears, listening: at length the sound draws the attention of others; one by one they congregate near the windows, but there is silence among all, broken only by hurried interjections swiftly silenced, that each may listen more intently. At last — there can be no doubt — there is a burst of joy as we behold the smoky, but most amiable monster, double the headland and bear down on the town. O, how good-humoured and communicative we are all become; what a clatter of voices, what joyful mutual congratulations! One sight we have just witnessed, is ridiculous to us who have the best of it — very disagreeable to the actors in the scene: on arriving at the quay the travellers poured out from the steamer, the porters shouldered the luggage, and all came in one stream to our hotel. There was no room; the voyagers expectant occupied every apartment. Travellers and porters went their way out again — the world was before them; but their choice was limited to some most wretched holes.

  SEPTEMBER 15TH.

  We thought ourselves in all things fortunate, when the morrow dawned bright and sunny. We had a heavenly voyage, which repaid us for yesterday’s ennui, and satisfied us that we had done the wisest thing in the world in entering Italy by the Lago di Garda. We left the abrupt, gloomy, sublime north, and gently dropped down to truly Italian scenes. The waters of the lake are celebrated for their azure tint; no waves could be so brightly blue, so clear, so that we saw the bottom of the lake, fathoms below. The mountains sank to hills, with banks cut into terraces, and covered with olives and vines, decorated by orange and lemon-trees; the country-houses sparkled in the sun. One of my friends quoted the lines that celebrate Benacus. Strangely enough, though weather-bound at Riva by one of those storms for which this lake is famous, we saw not a wave upon its surface; not even a curled ripplet, reminded us that it was teque,

  Fluctibus et fremitur assurgens,

  Benace marino.

  We landed at Lasise, a town distant fifteen miles from Verona, and while I employed myself in engaging a veturino for that place, and wandered about the town, my companions went to bathe in the clear waters of the azure lake. The promontory of Sirmio was in sight; an Italian landscape all around, an Italian sky, bright above: it was an hour of delicious joy — set, like a priceless diamond in the lead of common life — never to be forgotten.

  O, best of all the scattered spots that lie

  In sea or lake, apple of landscape’s eye, —

  How gladly do I drop within thy nest,

  With what a sigh of full, contented rest,

  Scarce able to believe my journey o’er,

  And that these eyes behold thee safe once more!

  Oh, where ‘s the luxury, like the smile at heart,

  When the mind, breathing, lays its load apart, —

  When we come home again, tired out, and spread

  The loosen’d limbs o’er all the wished-for bed!

  This, this alone, is worth an age of toil.

  Hail, lovely Sirmio! hail, paternal soil!

  Joy, my bright waters, joy; your master’s come!

  Laugh, every dimple on the cheek of home!

  AD SIRMIONEM PENINSULAM.

  Peninsularum, Sirmio, insularumque

  Ocelle, quascunque in liquentibus stagnis,

  Manque vasto fert uterque Neptunus;

  Quam te libenter, quamque aetus inviso,

  Vix mi ipse credens Thyniam, atque Bithynos

  Liquisse campos, et videre te in tuto.

  O quid solutis est beatius curis

  Cum mens onus reponit, ac peregrino

  Lahore fessi venimus larem ad nostrum,

  Desideratoque acquiescimus lecto?

  Hoc est quod unum est pro laboribus tantis.

  Salve, O venusta Sirmio, atque hero gaude;

  Gaudete, vosque Lariae lacus undae:

  Ride te quidquid est domi cachinnorum.

  LETTER VI.

  Verona. — Journey to Venice. — Leone Bianco. — Hotel d’ltalia.

  SEPTEMBER 18TH.

  I AM again in Italy. The earth is teeming with the wealth of September, the richest month of the year. The harvest of the Indian corn has begun; the grapes are hanging in rich ripening clusters from the vines, festooned from tree to tree: a genial atmosphere mantles the earth, and quickens a sense of delight in our hearts. The road lies through a richly cultivated country: the immense plain around us is bounded to the north by the mountains of the Tyrol, amongst which we seemed to have lost ourselves for an age, so refreshing, so new, so enchanting, is the wide expanse of fertile Lombardy, opening before our eyes.

  A sad disaster happened on our arrival at Verona. We had each our passport, and the whole was consigned to the pocket-book of one of the party; and when they were asked for at the gates of Verona, the pocket-book was not to be found. Except our passports, and Coutts’ lettre d’indication, it contained no papers of importance; but still, after all the annoyance the Austrians give about passports, it was rather appalling. Nothing could be done. It was remembered that when bathing, the pocket-book was safe; it must have been lost since. We were allowed to go on to the inn, and time would shew the result.

  The Gran Parigi is one of the most comfortable hotels I was ever at; it has the air of a palace, as doubtless it once was. The same evening, by the light of the clear full moon, my companions rambled about the town and entered the amphitheatre, which is used as a circus, and horsemanship was going on, and music filled the air. There was something startling in finding the building of ancient days used for its original purpose — the seats occupied by numerous spectators; the partial moonlight veiled with some mystery what the garish sun had disclosed as below Roman dignity in the assemblage.

  You know the charm of these Lombard cities. Built by a prosperous people, they have a princely and magnificent appearance: their grandeur is what grandeur ought to be — not gloomy and menacing, but cheerful and inspiriting. The cities look built by a happy people in which to be happy — by a noble and rich people, whose tastes were dignified, and whose habits of life were generous.

  We were promised a paper that would give us free course to Venice — for our Consul was at that city — and we were to be transferred to him, and meanwhile, our loss was made known in the country about. But, though the paper was promised, one or another of my friends was employed the whole morning in getting it properly signed. These delays were vexatious, more from the uncertainty that hung about the whole transaction, which kept us in attendance and perplexity. There was no help. We rambled to the garden, or walled podere, in which there is an fosse, and an old sort of sarcophagus, which they show as Juliet’s tomb. That Juliet lived and died, as Baldelli recounts, there can be little doubt; but it is not likely that this was “the tomb of the Capulets.” Still such a scene — a garden, with its high antique walls, its Italian vegetation, and the blue sky, cloudless above — was a scene familiar to Juliet; and her spirit might hover here, even if her fair form was sèpulchred elsewhere. It was a long walk thence to the tombs of the Scaligers. The most fairy architecture — not dark and Gothic, nor immured within the walls of a church; — a small open court encloses these elegant sepulchres.

  At length we obtained the paper, and set out.

  We had engaged a veturino for Venice. Some hope had we that the railroad might be open from Padua to Mestri; if not, we were to be taken to Fusina, sleeping at Vicenza in our way. The charm of autumnal vegetation, in a rich vine country, adorne
d the road, and a distant view of the Alps bounded the scene. We arrived at Vicenza at eleven o’clock, by a bright moonlight. I was sorry to see no more of these Palladian palaces than the glimpses we caught from our carriage-windows. Architecture shows to peculiar advantage by the silver radiance of a full moon: its partial white light throws portions into strong relief, and the polished marble reflects its, so to speak, icy radiance.

  September 19TH.

  WE found, on our arrival at Padua, that the railroad was not open; so we proceeded along the banks of the Brenta to Venice. Many a scene, which I have since visited and admired, has faded in my mind, as a painting in the Diorama melts away, and another struggles into the changing canvass; but this road was as distinct in my mind as if traversed yesterday. I will not here dwell on the sad circumstances that clouded my first visit to Venice. Death hovered over the scene. Gathered into myself, with my “mind’s eye” I saw those before me long departed; and I was agitated again by emotions — by passions — and those the deepest a woman’s heart can harbour — a dread to see her child even at that instant expire — which then occupied me. It is a strange, but to any person who has suffered, a familiar circumstance, that those who are enduring mental or corporeal agony are strangely alive to immediate external objects, and their imagination even exercises its wild power over them. Shakspeare knew this, and the passionate grief of Queen Constance thence is endued with fearful reality. Wordsworth, as many years ago I remember hearing Coleridge remark, illustrates the same fact, when he makes an insane and afflicted mother exclaim, —

  “The breeze I see it in the tree;

  It comes to cool my babe and me.”