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Is it
illusion? or does there a spirit from perfecter ages,
Here, even yet, amid loss, change, and corruption abide?
Does there a spirit we know not, though seek, though we
find, comprehend not,
Here to entice and confuse, tempt and evade us, abide?
Lives in the exquisite grace of the column disjointed
and single,
Haunts the rude masses of brick garlanded gaily with
vine,
E'en in the turret fantastic surviving that springs from
the ruin,
E'en in the people itself? is it illusion or not?
Is it illusion or not that attracteth the pilgrim
transalpine,
Brings him a dullard and dunce hither to pry and to
stare?
Is it illusion or not that allures the barbarian
stranger,
Brings him with gold to the shrine, brings him in arms
to the gate?
I. Claude to Eustace.
What do the people say, and what does the government
do?--you
Ask, and I know not at all. Yet fortune will favour your
hopes; and
I, who avoided it all, am fated, it seems, to describe
it.
I, who nor meddle nor make in politics,--I who sincerely
Put not my trust in leagues nor any suffrage by ballot,
Never predicted Parisian millenniums, never beheld a
New Jerusalem coming down dressed like a bride out of
heaven
Right on the Place de la Concorde,--I, nevertheless, let
me say it,
Could in my soul of souls, this day, with the Gaul at
the gates shed
One true tear for thee, thou poor little Roman Republic;
What, with the German restored, with Sicily safe to the
Bourbon,
Not leave one poor corner for native Italian exertion?
France, it is foully done! and you, poor foolish
England,--
You, who a twelvemonth ago said nations must choose for
themselves, you
Could not, of course, interfere,--you, now, when a
nation has chosen----
Pardon this folly! The Times will, of course, have
announced the occasion,
Told you the news of to-day; and although it was
slightly in error
When it proclaimed as a fact the Apollo was sold to a
Yankee,
You may believe when it tells you the French are at
Civita Vecchia.
II. Claude to Eustace.
Dulce it is, and decorum, no doubt, for the country to
fall,--to
Offer one's blood an oblation to Freedom, and die for
the Cause; yet
Still, individual culture is also something, and no man
Finds quite distinct the assurance that he of all others
is called on,
Or would be justified even, in taking away from the
world that
Precious creature, himself. Nature sent him here to
abide here;
Else why send him at all? Nature wants him still, it is
likely;
On the whole, we are meant to look after ourselves; it
is certain
Each has to eat for himself, digest for himself, and in
general
Care for his own dear life, and see to his own
preservation;
Nature's intentions, in most things uncertain, in this
are decisive;
Which, on the whole, I conjecture the Romans will
follow, and I shall.
So we cling to our rocks like limpets; Ocean may
bluster,
Over and under and round us; we open our shells to
imbibe our
Nourishment, close them again, and are safe, fulfilling
the purpose
Nature intended,--a wise one, of course, and a noble, we
doubt not.
Sweet it may be and decorous, perhaps, for the country
to die; but,
On the whole, we conclude the Romans won't do it, and I
sha'n't.
III. Claude to Eustace.
Will they fight? They say so. And will the French? I can
hardly,
Hardly think so; and yet----He is come, they say, to
Palo,
He is passed from Monterone, at Santa Severa
He hath laid up his guns. But the Virgin, the Daughter
of Roma,
She hath despised thee and laughed thee to scorn,--The
Daughter of Tiber,
She hath shaken her head and built barricades against
thee!
Will they fight? I believe it. Alas! 'tis ephemeral
folly,
Vain and ephemeral folly, of course, compared with
pictures,
Statues, and antique gems!--Indeed: and yet indeed too,
Yet, methought, in broad day did I dream,--tell it not
in St. James's,
Whisper it not in thy courts, O Christ Church!--yet did
I, waking,
Dream of a cadence that sings, Si tombent nos jeunes
héros, la
Terre en produit de nouveaux contre vous tous prêts à se
battre;
Dreamt of great indignations and angers transcendental,
Dreamt of a sword at my side and a battle-horse
underneath me.
IV. Claude to Eustace.
Now supposing the French or the Neapolitan soldier
Should by some evil chance come exploring the Maison
Serny
(Where the family English are all to assemble for
safety),
Am I prepared to lay down my life for the British
female?
Really, who knows? One has bowed and talked, till,
little by little,
All the natural heat has escaped of the chivalrous
spirit.
Oh, one conformed, of course; but one doesn't die for
good manners,
Stab or shoot, or be shot, by way of graceful attention.
No, if it should be at all, it should be on the
barricades there;
Should I incarnadine ever this inky pacifical finger,
Sooner far should it be for this vapour of Italy's
freedom,
Sooner far by the side of the d----d and dirty
plebeians.
Ah, for a child in the street I could strike; for the
full-blown lady----
Somehow, Eustace, alas! I have not felt the vocation.
Yet these people of course will expect, as of course, my
protection,
Vernon in radiant arms stand forth for the lovely
Georgina,
And to appear, I suppose, were but common civility. Yes,
and
Truly I do not desire they should either be killed or
offended.
Oh, and of course, you will say, 'When the time comes,
you will be ready.'
Ah, but before it comes, am I to presume it will be so?
What I cannot feel now, am I to suppose that I shall
feel?
Am I not free to attend for the ripe and indubious
instinct?
Am I forbidden to wait for the clear and lawful
perception?
Is it the calling of man to surrender his knowledge and
insight,
For the mere venture of what may, perhaps, be the
virtuous action?
Must we, walking our earth, discerning a little, and
hoping
Some plain visible task shall yet for our hands be
assigned us,--
Must we abandon the future for fear of omitting the
present,
Quit our own fireside hopes at the alien call of a
neighbour,
To the mere possible shadow of Deity offer the victim?
And is all this, my friend, but a weak and ignoble
refining,
Wholly unworthy the head or the heart of Your Own
Correspondent?
V. Claude to Eustace.
Yes, we are fighting at last, it appears. This morning
as usual,
Murray, as usual, in hand, I enter the Caffè Nuovo;
Seating myself with a sense as it were of a change in
the weather,
Not understanding, however, but thinking mostly of
Murray,
And, for to-day is their day, of the Campidoglio
Marbles;
Caffè-latte! I call to the waiter,--and Non c'è latte,
This is the answer he makes me, and this is the sign of
a battle.
So I sit: and truly they seem to think any one else more
Worthy than me of attention. I wait for my milkless nero,
Free to observe undistracted all sorts and sizes of
persons,
Blending civilian and soldier in strangest costume,
coming in, and
Gulping in hottest haste, still standing, their
coffee,--withdrawing
Eagerly, jangling a sword on the steps, or jogging a
musket
Slung to the shoulder behind. They are fewer, moreover,
than usual,
Much and silenter far; and so I begin to imagine
Something is really afloat. Ere I leave, the Caffe is
empty,
Empty too the streets, in all its length the Corso
Empty, and empty I see to my right and left the Condotti.
Twelve o'clock, on the Pincian Hill, with lots of
English,
Germans, Americans, French,--the Frenchmen, too, are
protected,--
So we stand in the sun, but afraid of a probable shower;
So we stand and stare, and see, to the left of St.
Peter's,
Smoke, from the cannon, white,--but that is at intervals
only,--
Black, from a burning house, we suppose, by the
Cavalleggieri;
And we believe we discern some lines of men descending
Down through the vineyard-slopes, and catch a bayonet
gleaming.
Every ten minutes, however,--in this there is no
misconception,--
Comes a great white puff from behind Michel Angelo's
dome, and
After a space the report of a real big gun,--not the
Frenchman's!--
That must be doing some work. And so we watch and
conjecture.
Shortly, an Englishman comes, who says he has been to
St. Peter's,
Seen the Piazza and troops, but that is all he can tell
us;
So we watch and sit, and, indeed, it begins to be
tiresome.--
All this smoke is outside; when it has come to the
inside,
It will be time, perhaps, to descend and retreat to our
houses.
Half-past one, or two. The report of small arms
frequent,
Sharp and savage indeed; that cannot all be for nothing:
So we watch and wonder; but guessing is tiresome, very.
Weary of wondering, watching, and guessing, and
gossiping idly,
Down I go, and pass through the quiet streets with the
knots of
National Guards patrolling, and flags hanging out at the
windows,
English, American, Danish,--and, after offering to help
an
Irish family moving en masse to the Maison Serny,
After endeavouring idly to minister balm to the
trembling
Quinquagenarian fears of two lone British spinsters,
Go to make sure of my dinner before the enemy enter.
But by this there are signs of stragglers returning; and
voices
Talk, though you don't believe it, of guns and prisoners
taken;
And on the walls you read the first bulletin of the
morning.--
This is all that I saw, and all that I know of the
battle.
VI. Claude to Eustace.
Victory! Victory!--Yes! ah, yes, thou republican Zion,
Truly the kings of the earth are gathered and gone by
together;
Doubtless they marvelled to witness such things, were
astonished, and so forth.
Victory! Victory! Victory!--Ah, but it is, believe me,
Easier, easier far, to intone the chant of the martyr
Than to indite any paean of any victory. Death may
Sometimes be noble; but life, at the best, will appear
an illusion.
While the great pain is upon us, it is great; when it is
over,
Why, it is over. The smoke of the sacrifice rises to
heaven,
Of a sweet savour, no doubt, to Somebody; but on the
altar,
Lo, there is nothing remaining but ashes and dirt and
ill odour.
So it stands, you perceive; the labial muscles that
swelled with
Vehement evolution of yesterday Marseillaises,
Articulations sublime of defiance and scorning, to-day
col-
Lapse and languidly mumble, while men and women and
papers
Scream and re-scream to each other the chorus of
Victory. Well, but
I am thankful they fought, and glad that the Frenchmen
were beaten.
VII. Claude to Eustace.
So, I have seen a man killed! An experience that, among
others!
Yes, I suppose I have; although I can hardly be certain,
And in a court of justice could never declare I had seen
it.
But a man was killed, I am told, in a place where I saw
Something; a man was killed, I am told, and I saw
something.
I was returning home from St. Peter's; Murray, as usual,
Under my arm, I remember; had crossed the St. Angelo
bridge; and
Moving towards the Condotti, had got to the first
barricade, when
Gradually, thinking still of St. Peter's, I became
conscious
Of a sensation of movement opposing me,--tendency this
way
(Such as one fancies may be in a stream when the wave of
the tide is
Coming and not yet come,--a sort of noise and
retention);
So I turned, and, before I turned, caught sight of
stragglers
Heading a crowd, it is plain, that is coming behind that
corner.
Looking up, I see windows filled with heads; the Piazza,
Into which you remember the Ponte St. Angelo enters,
Since I passed, has thickened with curious groups; and
now the
Crowd is coming, has turned, has crossed that last
barricade, is
Here at my side. In the middle they drag at something.
What is it?
Ha! bare swords in the air, held up? There seem to be
voices
Pleading and hands putting back; official, perhaps; but
the swords are
Many, and bare in the air. In the air? they descend;
they are smiting,
Hewing, chopping--At what? In the air once more
upstretched? And--
Is it blood that's on them? Yes, certainly blood! Of
whom, then?
Over whom is the cry of this furor of exultation?
While they are skipping and screaming, and dancing their
caps on the points of
Swords and bayonets, I to the outskirts back, and ask a
Mercantile-seeming bystander, 'What is it?' and he,
looking always
That way, makes me answer, 'A Priest, who was trying to
fly to
The Neapolitan army,'--and thus explains the proceeding.
You didn't see the dead man? No;--I began to be
doubtful;
I was in black myself, and didn't know what mightn't
happen,--
But a National Guard close by me, outside of the hubbub,
Broke his sword with slashing a broad hat covered with
dust,--and
Passing away from the place with Murray under my arm,
and
Stooping, I saw through the legs of the people the legs
of a body.
You are the first, do you know, to whom I have mentioned
the matter.
Whom should I tell it to else?--these girls?--the
Heavens forbid it!--
Quidnuncs at Monaldini's--Idlers upon the Pincian?
If I rightly remember, it happened on that afternoon
when
Word of the nearer approach of a new Neapolitan army
First was spread. I began to bethink me of Paris
Septembers,
Thought I could fancy the look of that old 'Ninety-two.
On that evening
Three or four, or, it may be, five, of these people were
slaughtered
Some declared they had, one of them, fired on a
sentinel; others
Say they were only escaping; a Priest, it is currently
stated,
Stabbed a National Guard on the very Piazza Colonna:
History, Rumour of Rumours, I leave to thee to
determine!
But I am thankful to say the government seems to have
strength to
Put it down; it has vanished, at least; the place is
most peaceful.
Through the Trastevere walking last night, at nine of
the clock, I
Found no sort of disorder; I crossed by the
Island-bridges,
So by the narrow streets to the Ponte Rotto, and onwards
Thence by the Temple of Vesta, away to the great
Coliseum,
Which at the full of the moon is an object worthy a
visit.
VIII. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----.
Only think, dearest Louisa, what fearful scenes we have
witnessed!--
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
George has just seen Garibaldi, dressed up in a long
white cloak, on
Horseback, riding by, with his mounted negro behind him:
This is a man, you know, who came from America with him,
Out of the woods, I suppose, and uses a lasso in
fighting,
Which is, I don't quite know, but a sort of noose, I
imagine;
This he throws on the heads of the enemy's men in a
battle,
Pulls them into his reach, and then most cruelly kills
them:
Mary does not believe, but we heard it from an Italian.
Mary allows she was wrong about Mr. Claude being
selfish;
He was most useful and kind on the terrible thirtieth of
April.
Do not write here any more; we are starting directly for
Florence:
We should be off to-morrow, if only Papa could get
horses;
All have been seized everywhere for the use of this
dreadful Mazzini
P.S.
Mary has seen thus far.--I am really so angry, Louisa,--
Quite out of patience, my dearest! What can the man be
intending?
I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a
moment,
Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor
dismiss him.
IX. Claude to Eustace.
It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words
(in
Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the
people.
Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly
tranquil;
And one cannot conceive that this easy and nonchalant
crowd, that
Flows like a quiet stream through street and
market-place, entering
Shady recesses and bays of church, osteria, and caffè,
Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten
lava,
Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion.
Ah, 'tis an excellent race,--and even in old
degradation,
Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and
cheating,
E'en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people.
Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of
redemption!--but clearly
That is not likely to be. Meantime, notwithstanding all
journals,
Honour for once to the tongue and the pen of the
eloquent writer!
Honour to speech! and all honour to thee, thou noble
Mazzini!
X. Claude to Eustace.
I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt you would
think so.
I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course,
you would say so.
I am in love, you declare. I think not so; yet I grant
you
It is a pleasure indeed to converse with this girl. Oh,
rare gift,
Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can
Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and
of thinking,
Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one
moment,
Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her,
consents to
Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to
those vain
Conscious understandings that vex the minds of mankind.
No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not
the keys; 'tis
Song, though you hear in the song the articulate
vocables sounded,
Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious
meaning.
I am in love, you say; I do not think so, exactly.
XI. Claude to Eustace.
There are two different kinds, I believe, of human
attraction:
One which simply disturbs, unsettles, and makes you
uneasy,
And another that poises, retains, and fixes and holds
you.
I have no doubt, for myself, in giving my voice for the
latter.
I do not wish to be moved, but growing where I was
growing,
There more truly to grow, to live where as yet I had
languished.
I do not like being moved: for the will is excited; and
action
Is a most dangerous thing; I tremble for something
factitious,
Some malpractice of heart and illegitimate process;
We are so prone to these things, with our terrible
notions of duty.
XII. Claude to Eustace.
Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unhurried,
unprompted!
Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what
is present!
Say not, Time flies, and Occasion, that never returns,
is departing!
Drive me not out yet, ye ill angels with fiery swords,
from my Eden,
Waiting, and watching, and looking! Let love be its own
inspiration!
Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the
airs that environ,
Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge
or effort,
Break into audible words? And love be its own
inspiration?
XIII. Claude to Eustace.
Wherefore and how I am certain, I hardly can tell; but
it is so.
She doesn't like me, Eustace; I think she never will
like me.
Is it my fault, as it is my misfortune, my ways are not
her ways?
Is it my fault, that my habits and modes are dissimilar
wholly?
'Tis not her fault; 'tis her nature, her virtue, to
misapprehend them:
'Tis not her fault; 'tis her beautiful nature, not ever
to know me.
Hopeless it seems,--yet I cannot, though hopeless,
determine to leave it:
She goes--therefore I go; she moves,--I move, not to
lose her.
XIV. Claude to Eustace.
Oh, 'tisn't manly, of course, 'tisn't manly, this method
of wooing;
'Tisn't the way very likely to win. For the woman, they
tell you,
Ever prefers the audacious, the wilful, the vehement
hero;
She has no heart for the timid, the sensitive soul; and
for knowledge,--
Knowledge, O ye Gods!--when did they appreciate
knowledge?
Wherefore should they, either? I am sure I do not desire
it.
Ah, and I feel too, Eustace, she cares not a tittle
about me!
(Care about me, indeed! and do I really expect it?)
But my manner offends; my ways are wholly repugnant;
Every word that I utter estranges, hurts, and repels
her;
Every moment of bliss that I gain, in her exquisite
presence,
Slowly, surely, withdraws her, removes her, and severs
her from me.
Not that I care very much!--any way I escape from the
boy's own
Folly, to which I am prone, of loving where it is easy.
Not that I mind very much! Why should I? I am not in
love, and
Am prepared, I think, if not by previous habit,
Yet in the spirit beforehand for this and all that is
like it;
It is an easier matter for us contemplative creatures,
Us upon whom the pressure of action is laid so lightly;
We, discontented indeed with things in particular, idle,
Sickly, complaining, by faith, in the vision of things
in general,
Manage to hold on our way without, like others around
us,
Seizing the nearest arm to comfort, help, and support
us.
Yet, after all, my Eustace, I know but little about it.
All I can say for myself, for present alike and for
past, is,
Mary Trevellyn, Eustace, is certainly worth your
acquaintance.
You couldn't come, I suppose, as far as Florence to see
her?
XV. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----.
. . . . . . To-morrow we're starting for Florence,
Truly rejoiced, you may guess, to escape from republican
terrors;
Mr. C. and Papa to escort us; we by vettura
Through Siena, and Georgy to follow and join us by
Leghorn.
Then---- Ah, what shall I say, my dearest? I tremble in
thinking!
You will imagine my feelings,--the blending of hope and
of sorrow.
How can I bear to abandon Papa and Mamma and my Sisters?
Dearest Louise, indeed it is very alarming; but, trust
me
Ever, whatever may change, to remain your loving
Georgina.
P.S. by Mary Trevellyn.
. . . . . . . 'Do I like Mr. Claude any better?'
I am to tell you,--and, 'Pray, is it Susan or I that
attract him?'
This he never has told, but Georgina could certainly ask
him.
All I can say for myself is, alas! that he rather repels
me.
There! I think him agreeable, but also a little
repulsive.
So be content, dear Louisa; for one satisfactory
marriage
Surely will do in one year for the family you would
establish
Neither Susan nor I shall afford you the joy of a
second.
P.S. by Georgina Trevellyn.
Mr. Claude, you must know, is behaving a little bit
better;
He and Papa are great friends; but he really is too
shilly-shally,--
So unlike George! Yet I hope that the matte is going on
fairly.
I shall, however, get George, before he goes, to say
something.
Dearest Louise, how delightful to bring young people
together!
Is it Florence we follow, or are we to tarry yet longer,
E'en amid clamour of arms, here in the city of old,
Seeking from clamour of arms in the Past and the Arts to
be hidden,
Vainly 'mid Arts and the Past seeking one life to
forget?
Ah, fair shadow, scarce seen, go forth! for anon he
shall follow,--
He that beheld thee, anon, whither thou leadest must go!
Go, and the wise, loving Muse, she also will follow and
find thee!
She, should she linger in Rome, were not dissevered from
thee!
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