by Mary Shelley
This was among the latter works of Raffaelle. Whether it be, as M. Rio argues, that falling, from that high devotional state of mind which inspired his younger works, he could no longer rise to ideal perfection, or that the remains of antique art at Rome, and the simple and majestic pencil of Michael Angelo, in the Sistine Chapel, giving larger scope to his ideas of composition, he began a new styles and the powers of man being limited, the attaining something new, however excellent, occasioned him to lose a portion of that which he before possessed; there can be no doubt that his manner entirely changed, I am not always disposed to regret this alteration. It has been the cause of a variety in excellence; for if we miss in his latter pictures the portraiture of innocence, and divine love, represented in the Madonnas and saints of his first style, we have something else, which no one but Raffaelle could give. To understand me, let me ask you to call to mind the Madonna di Foligno in the Vatican, and the Descent from the Cross in the Palazzo Borghese. The first beams, with an adorable and beatified sweetness, all purity and love. In the second, do you remember, besides the many other pity-striking figures, the St. John? He is holding one end of the cloth which enfolds his dead master’s body. The expression of agony proper to the beloved disciple, struggles with the exertion of strength necessitated by the act on which he is employed; the resolution to perform the rites due to the dead, is mingled with yearning veneration for the corpse of him whom he passionately adored. These pictures are the triumph of Christian art. Then recollect the frescos of the history of Psyche in the Farnesina, and the youthful and nymph-like loveliness of the Galatea — these are specimens of his last style — and form your own opinion as to his improvement or otherwise. Whichever way you incline, there is one conclusion to which you must necessarily come, that Raffaelle in both styles, the Christian and the Pagan, is superior to every other painter—” high actions and high passions best describing.”
Day after day, often accompanied by our accomplished friend, whose taste and knowledge are invaluable, we visit the galleries of Rome. In one small chamber of the Barberini palace are three gems of art; and in these, expression appeared triumphant over skill, to the disadvantage of Raffaelle. A portrait of the Fornarina is contrasted with that of Beatrice Cenci, by Guido. In vain I was told to compare the exquisite finish, the faultless painting of cheek and lip, of the disagreeable-looking beauty, with the comparatively imperfect touches of Guido’s pencil. The innocent, tearful face of the young and lovely girl, whose look expresses the self-pity which must have swelled in her heart, as she thought, how she, from very horror of crime, was become a murderess, put to shame the dark eyes and pencilled brows of her, whose passion was devoid of tenderness. It is gratifying to see the work of an English painter in a Homan church. The picture by Mr. Severn in the Cathedral of San Paolo fuore delle Mura, is a beautiful composition, and shews to great advantage. It is the first work of a Protestant artist admitted into a Roman church. The high esteem in which Mr. Severn was held in Rome ensured him this distinction.
I have visited with great pleasure the studios of modern statuaries. They are mostly now employed in portraying or idealizing a Capuan peasant-woman, la Grazia, whose beauty is of an expressive, mobile, and grand cast. The best representation of her is as Hagar in the desert.
The angel of the day of judgment, by Tenerani, is very fine; and Mr. Gibson’s studio contains statues admirably executed in that classic taste which he so successfully cultivates.
LETTER XIX.
Ruins of Rome. — The Holy Week. — Music and Illuminations.
TRINITA DE’ MONTI, APRIL.
“What are the pleasures that I enjoy at Rome?” you ask. They are so many, that my mind is brimful of a sort of glowing satisfaction, mingled with tearful associations. Besides all that Rome itself affords of delightful to the eye and imagination, I revisit it as the bourne of a pious pilgrimage. The treasures of my youth lie buried here.
The sky is bright — the air impregnated with the soft odours of spring — we take our books and wile sway the morning among the ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, or the Coliseum. From the shattered walls of the former, the view over the city and the Campagna is very beautiful. The Palatine is near at hand, and majestic ruins guide the eye to where the golden palace spreads its vast extent. These ruins, chiefly piles of brick — remnants of massive walls or lofty archways — may not be beautiful in themselves; but overgrown with parasites and flowering shrubs, they are grouped in so picturesque a manner among broken ground and dark gigantic trees — the many towers of the city gathering near — the distant hills on the clear horizon, with clouds just resting in scattered clusters on the tops, and the sky above, deeply blue — that the whole scene is delightful to feel, as well as look at.
There is one view from the Coliseum that I am never tired of contemplating. Ascending to the second range of arches, and looking from the verge towards the tomb of Cestius — in the foreground is the Temple of Venus, the Palatine Mount, and the ruins of the Forum — the country, varied by woods and hills and ruins, is spread beyond — the tomb of Cestius, gleaming at a distance, is a resting place for the eye — and various trees seem placed expressly to give the scene the air of a landscape sitting for its picture — all grace and smiles and radiance.
The Forum used to be, long, long ago, before I ever saw it, a broken space of ground, with an avenue through the Campo Vacino leading to the Coliseum, with triumphal arches and tall columns half-buried in the soil. Now the excavations are considerable. I have heard painters lament that the picturesque beauty has been spoilt; but as its appearance, such as time and neglect had left it, is changed, it is as well to complete the task of excavation. Much has been done since I was here last, and workmen are in constant employ. I wish you could see the chief among them. Imagine an Indian file of fifty old men in the last stage of decrepitude, grey-headed, bent-shouldered, and feeble-legged, each rolling a small wheelbarrow, creeping along so slow, and yet that extreme slowness appearing an exertion for them.
From the Forum we ascended the hill of the Capitol, and, with some trouble, got the custode, and mounted the tower of the Campidoglio. We looked round, and fancied how, from this height, the patricians and consuls of Old Rome watched the advance of marauding parties that wound out from the ravines of the hills, or whose spears and helmets glittered above the brow of the Janicular hill; and the cry of the Sabines, or fiercer and more terrible, of the Gauls, made the populace gather in the Forum below, and give their names to be inscribed as soldiers for instant fight. The Tiber glitters in the distance, and Soracte rising from out the plain,
“Heaves like a long-swept wave, about to break,
And on the curl hangs pausing.”
I never look at the ridge of Sant’ Oreste, (as it is now called,) but these lines, which so admirably paint it, come into my mind.
I scarcely know what view of Rome to prefer. That from the ruined Baths of Caracalla, or from the verge of the Coliseum, or the panorama of the Capitol, or from the porch of the Lateran, which commands a different landscape. — You see nothing of the city, for your back is turned on it; you are on a height, the Campagna at your feet, spanned by a number of ruined aqueducts, whose grandeur and extent impress the mind, more than any other object, with a sense of Roman greatness. From the Lateran down to the Coliseum, nearly a mile, and in the adjoining space, was the most magnificent quarter of the old city. Now it is occupied by Poderi, divided by high walls, with here and there a ruin — a toppling wall or broken arch. When Pope Gregory VII. called in Robert Guiscard to drive Henry III. from his capital, the Saracens of Sicily, under the command of the Norman, sacked Rome, and this portion of the city was burned and levelled with the soil. So utter was the desolation, that the survivors found it more convenient to build nearly a new town at a distance, than to attempt to restore their homes among the smoking ruins of palaces, temples, and baths, which lay a black heap, till they crumbled away — and trees and flowers sprung up, and the peasantry came with the pl
ough, and sowed seed and reaped corn.
We spent half a day rambling over the Palatine — the Contadino, our guide, told us that every July and August, the mal’ aria reigned, and his sunken cheeky spoke of his having been a victim. He asked us if we had the mal’ aria in England.—” Che bel paese,” he said with a sigh on hearing our negative.
Often, as at Venice, we leave our home without any definite object, and wander about the deserted part of Rome — that which once was the centre of its magnificence. Thus we viewed the Church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, built by Michael Angelo, with materials, columns and marbles, remnants of the Baths of Diocletian; it is one of the most striking and majestic of the Roman churches. Thus we found ourselves at the foot of the Capitol, and an inscription led us to visit the Mamertine prisons, a spot held sacred since St. Peter and other Christian martyrs were confined there. It is indubitably the oldest relic of the ancient republic, and the monument of its cruel and arrogant disdain for human life and suffering, impresses one painfully. How much of that has there ever been all over the world — and now! I used to pride myself on English humanity; but the boast is quenched in shame, since I read, last winter, the accounts of the cruelties practised in the Affghan war. We were injured, and, therefore, we revenge; such also was the tenet of old Rome.
The galleries of the Capitol often entice us. Here are some of the finest statues in the world. The Amazon, in whom a severe and martial expression is allied to feminine grace, and a something womanly softens the countenance in spite of sternness. The Venus of the Capitol is the only Queen of Beauty that can at all compete with the Goddess of the Tribune. The Cupid and Psyche is less tender and innocent than the Florentine group, but there is a passionate love in the caress that makes the marble appear tremulous with emotion.
April 20.
Holy Week is over. The ceremonies of the Church strike me as less majestic than when I was last here; perhaps this is to be attributed to the chief part being filled by another actor. Pius VII. was a venerable and dignified old man. Pope Gregory, shutting his eyes as he is carried round St. Peter’s, because the motion of the chair makes him sea-sick, by no means excites respect. If I ever revisit Rome during the Holy Week, I shall not seek for tickets for the ceremonies; it will be quite enough to enter the Cathedral for half-an-hour while they were going on.
But a thousand times over I would go to listen to the Miserere in the Sistine Chapel; that spot made sacred by the most sublime works of Michael Angelo. I do not allude to the Last Judgment — which I do not admire — but to the paintings on the roof, which have that simple grandeur that Michael Angelo alone could confer on a single figure, making it complete in itself — enthroned in majesty — reigning over the souls of men.
The music, not only of the Miserere, but of the Lamentations, is solemn, pathetic, religious — the soul is rapt — carried away into another state of being. Strange that grief, and laments, and the humble petition of repentance, should fill us with delight — a delight that awakens these very emotions in the heart — and calls tears into the eyes, and yet which is dearer than any pleasure. It is one of the mysteries of our nature, that the feelings which most torture and subdue, yet, if idealized — elevated by the imagination — married harmoniously to sound or colour — turn those pains to happiness; inspiring adoration; and a tremulous but ardent aspiration for immortality. Such seems the sentient link between our heavenly and terrestrial nature; and thus, in Paradise, as Dante tells, — glory beatifies the sight, and seraphic harmony wraps the saints in bliss.
Another sight of this week, is the washing of the feet of the pilgrims. The ladies of Rome belong to a sisterhood who perform this service on Good Friday for the female pilgrims. The hospital of the Pelegrini was crowded; we could hardly make our way. In my life I never saw so much female beauty as among the sisterhood — their faces so perfect in contour; so lovely in expression; so noble, and so soft, that the recollection will haunt my memory for ever.
I went to mass at the Church of the Jesuits — as usual glittering with ornaments, precious stones, wax-lights, and all manner of finery. The music was in the same style — well suited for the Opera-house; it would there have enchanted; but it wanted that solemn, religious descant, which awed the spirit in the Sistine Chapel.
The illumination of St. Peter’s terminated the sights of the week — that and the fire-works of the Castel Sant’ Angelo. — There is more of creation in the first of these sights than in any other in the world. It is but a dim, and scant, and human imitation of the third verse of the first chapter of Genesis; but it is an imitation of the most sublime act of divine power; and though bearing but a very weak resemblance to what we imagine of the moment when, on a word, light disclosed the glories of creation, yet, there is darkness, and radiance sudden and dazzling bursts forth, and — it is very fine.
It is curious to see all these solemnities — many of them doubtless of Fagan origin — dear to the people, and therefore preserved and christianised by the Popes — and to reflect, that such, for many, many centuries, was the chief link fostered by religion between man and the Divinity. We have obliterated all this among ourselves. No doubt the impulse of piety in the heart is a truer and purer oblation; but Catholics reason that these are aids and supports to enable weak humanity — a creature half matter, half soul — to sustain itself in its pious ecstacies. Besides, God created in us not only the sense of, but also in some degree the power of creating the beautiful; and is it not well to dedicate to divine worship the glorious gifts which were bestowed for the purpose of raising the soul from earth and linking it to Heaven?
LETTER XX.
The Pontifical States.
MAY 3.
“WHEREVER the Catholic religion is established, I have uniformly observed indolence, with its concomitants, dirt and beggary, to prevail; and the more Catholic is the place, the more they abound.” These are the words of a clever writer, well acquainted with Rome, apropos of Rome. It must be added, that wherever the Catholic religion prevails, great works of charity subsist. During the time of Catholicism, charitable institutions, as is well known, abounded all over England — in some few obscure comers such still survive, where the old may find a peaceful refuge — not in crowded receptacles, where they are looked on as useless burthens on a heavily-taxed parish — but in decent almshouses, bordering grassy enclosures, near gardens that supply their table; peaceful nooks, where the aged may converse with nature, and find the way to the grave soothed by that calm so dear to declining years. Jesus Christ so forcibly recommended the poor to all who professed his religion, that, in common with all other Christians, every good Catholic considers works of charity to be his paramount duty. One of the most enlightened, Pascal, gave a touching proof of this, when, on his death-bed, he only admitted his pains to be soothed by careful nursing, on condition that two paupers in the same state should receive the same attentions in an adjoining apartment. The poor were to him objects of real and tender affection.
As eleemosynary charity is an essential portion of Catholicism, we may expect that it should flourish in the capital of the Catholic world. There are many beggars, but there is no absolute want, at Rome. Beggary is a condition, and it becomes a matter of favour to be allowed to beg. Plates of metal are given to such as are permitted, and fastened to the arm of poor deformed objects, who are to be found in every corner of the city, asking alms. Many convents distribute food regularly at different hours, when all who ask may have. There is, besides, a house of industry, I hear, carried on on excellent principles. There are, to the destruction of the savings of the poor, state lotteries all over Italy. It was considered that this demoralising gambling ought not to be kept up in the capital of the head of the church: but it was argued that a love of putting in the lottery could not be rooted out, and while Naples, Tuscany, and Venice had lotteries, the Romans would send their money to those states, if they could not be indulged at home. A Roman lottery therefore exists, and the proceeds go to keep up a house of
industry. Here a number of young people are taught various trades. Young men are apprenticed, and girls receive dowries, while the old people have a home that smoothes their passage to the grave. Besides these conventual aids and government institutions, there are many confraternities of citizens whose bond of duty is charity to the sick and poor. People of all classes of society belong to them, and meet on an equal footing. The city is divided into several quarters, and the various confraternities have each one assigned to them, which they visit and relieve.
Several of the persons I know remained in Rome during the visitation of the cholera in 1837, and they still vividly remember the horror of the time.
It was a conviction, a superstition, nourished by the church, that this fatal epidemic would spare the Holy City, and the arguments urged to prove its exemption were absurd, and yet horrible to hear. When the great heats of August set in, and a few cases began to be mentioned, the government, grown frantic through mingled terror and folly, thought only of convincing the people that Rome would be spared. The pest might be said to have been welcomed by illuminations and processions, and its virulence propagated and fixed by the poor people being encouraged to go about barefoot, while their last coin was drained from them to buy oil for lamps to burn in the churches. The stench and heat in these edifices became of itself pestilential, for the summer was more sultry even than usual, and the crowds that filled them were tremendous. Groups of persons were to be seen in the streets and churches, standing barefoot before the Madonnas and crucifixes, expecting to see the images open their eyes and shed blood, both of which miracles, it was averred, had taken place. But this absurd buffoonery sunk into insignificance compared with the dreadful ideas purposely put into the people’s minds about poison; in the early stage of the epidemic, several persons fell victims to the frenzy thus occasioned.