by Mary Shelley
Thus thou, Ravine of Arve — dark, deep Ravine —
Thou many-coloured, many-voiced vale,
Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns sail
Fast cloud-shadows and sunbeams: awful scene,
Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down
From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne,
Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame
Of lightning through the tempest; — thou dost lie,
Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging,
Children of elder time, in whose devotion
The chainless winds still come and ever came
To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging
To hear — an old and solemn harmony;
Thine earthly rainbows stretched across the sweep
Of the etherial waterfall, whose veil
Robes some unsculptured image; the strange sleep
Which when the voices of the desert fail
Wraps all in its own deep eternity; —
Thy caverns echoing to the Arve’s commotion,
A loud, lone sound no other sound can tame;
Thou art pervaded with that ceaseless motion,
Thou art the path of that unresting sound —
Dizzy Ravine! and when I gaze on thee
I seem as in a trance sublime and strange
To muse on my own separate fantasy,
My own, my human mind, which passively
Now renders and receives fast influencings,
Holding an unremitting interchange
With the clear universe of things around;
One legion of wild thoughts, whose wandering wings
Now float above thy darkness, and now rest
Where that or thou art no unbidden guest,
In the still cave of the witch Poesy,
Seeking among the shadows that pass by
Ghosts of all things that are, some shade of thee,
Some phantom, some faint image; till the breast
From which they fled recalls them, thou art there!
3
Some say that gleams of a remoter world
Visit the soul in sleep, — that death is slumber,
And that its shapes the busy thoughts outnumber
Of those who wake and live. — I look on high;
Has some unknown omnipotence unfurled
The veil of life and death? or do I lie
In dream, and does the mightier world of sleep
Spread far around and inaccessibly
Its circles? For the very spirit fails,
Driven like a homeless cloud from steep to steep
That vanishes among the viewless gales!
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,
Mont Blanc appears — still, snowy, and serene;
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales between
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread
And wind among the accumulated steeps;
A desert peopled by the storms alone,
Save when the eagle brings some hunter’s bone,
And the wolf tracks her there — how hideously
Its shapes are heaped around! rude, bare, and high,
Ghastly, and scarred, and riven. — Is this the scene
Where the old Earthquake-dæmon taught her young
Ruin? Were these their toys? or did a sea
Of fire envelop once this silent snow?
None can reply — all seems eternal now.
The wilderness has a mysterious tongue
Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so mild,
So solemn, so serene, that man may be,
But for such faith, with Nature reconciled;
Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to repeal
Large codes of fraud and woe; not understood
By all, but which the wise, and great, and good
Interpret, or make felt, or deeply feel.
4
The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the streams,
Ocean, and all the living things that dwell
Within the dædal earth; lightning, and rain,
Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurricane,
The torpor of the year when feeble dreams
Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep
Holds every future leaf and flower; the bound
With which from that detested trance they leap;
The works and ways of man, their death and birth,
And that of him and all that his may be;
All things that move and breathe with toil and sound
Are born and die; revolve, subside, and swell.
Power dwells apart in its tranquillity,
Remote, serene, and inaccessible:
And this, the naked countenance of earth,
On which I gaze, even these primæval mountains
Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers creep
Like snakes that watch their prey, from their far fountains,
Slow rolling on; there, many a precipice
Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal power
Have piled: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle,
A city of death, distinct with many a tower
And wall impregnable of beaming ice.
Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin
Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky
Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing
Its destined path, or in the mangled soil
Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks, drawn down
From yon remotest waste, have overthrown
The limits of the dead and living world,
Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place
Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil;
Their food and their retreat for ever gone,
So much of life and joy is lost. The race
Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling
Vanish, like smoke before the tempest’s stream,
And their place is not known. Below, vast caves
Shine in the rushing torrents’ restless gleam,
Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling
Meet in the vale, and one majestic River,
The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever
Rolls its loud waters to the ocean-waves,
Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air.
5
Mont Blanc yet gleams on high: — the power is there,
The still and solemn power of many sights,
And many sounds, and much of life and death.
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,
In the lone glare of day, the snows descend
Upon that Mountain; none beholds them there,
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,
Or the star-beams dart through them. — Winds contend
Silently there, and heap the snow with breath
Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes
Keeps innocently, and like vapour broods
Over the snow. The secret Strength of things
Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome
Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee!
And what were thou, and earth, and stars, and sea,
If to the human mind’s imaginings
Silence and solitude were vacancy?
RAMBLES IN GERMANY AND ITALY, IN 1840, 1842, AND 1843
Rambles in Germany and Italy is Shelley’s last published work in her lifetime and is concentrated on two trips Shelley took, to Germany and Italy with her son Percy and some of his friends. The work was first published in 1844 but was not reprinted until the 20th century feminist movement revived interest in Shelley’s texts. She had spent much of her marriage to Percy Shelley in Italy and the
country held many happy memories for her but it was also associated with her grief at the loss of her children and husband. The trip to Germany and Italy began in the summer of 1840 and lasted three months during which time Shelley began to show signs of the illness that would kill her eleven years later. In 1842 Shelley embarked on a fourteen month tour with her son and some friends again, visiting Germany before travelling to Italy. After time spent on the peninsula Percy returned to England while Shelley went to Paris.
Shelley’s work was explicitly political and her interest was to gain support for Italian revolutionaries in their struggle against imperial powers. Shelley became particularly interested in the ‘Young Italy’ theme due to a personal attachment to one young revolutionary she encountered in Paris; Gatteschi, an Italian in exile for whom she decided to attempt to publish Rambles. Her publisher agreed to give her an advance for her proposed work and Shelley’s final text which mainly consisted of her correspondences with her step- sister Claire Clairmont was published in the summer of 1844. Shelley’s relationship with Gatteschi quickly soured and he attempted to blackmail her with supposedly embarrassing and indiscreet letters she had sent him. The matter was only resolved when Paris police seized the letters from Gatteschi’s possession as part of an operation that was partly financed by Shelley.
The travel narrative consists of three parts, the 1st detailing the 1840 trip and the 2nd and 3rd focusing her 1842 travels and experiences. The topics discussed include her health, the scenery, the art and literature and also the history and national character of the Germans and Italians. Similarly to a Six Weeks’ Tour this work defies the standard practice of travel narratives by virtue of being political and is particularly unusual because politics were deemed to be an inappropriate subject for female writers. Shelley praises the national character of the Italians and believes that they have great untapped potential which could lead to revolt and a progressive future. Shelley did not rate her text highly but the work was received favourably by critics who praised aspects on Shelley’s political commentary on Italy and the wit of the writing. Unsurprisingly it also drew criticism from reviewers who did not believe that political thought was a correct topic for women and the scholarly Jeanne Moskal cites a review in The Observer that proposes that unlike logical men, Shelley approached the subject from a perspective of feeling rather than reason.
One of the chief sights mentioned in the travelogue, the Simplon Pass is located between the Pennine Alps and the Lepontine Alps in Switzerland.
CONTENTS
PREFACE.
PART I. — 1840.
LETTER I.
LETTER II
LETTER III.
LETTER IV.
LETTER V.
LETTER VI.
LETTER VII.
LETTER VIII.
LETTER IX.
LETTER X.
LETTER XI.
LETTER XII.
PART II — 1842-1843. IN GERMANY AND ITALY.
LETTER I.
LETTER II.
LETTER III.
LETTER IV.
LETTER V.
LETTER VI.
LETTER VII.
LETTER VIII.
LETTER IX.
LETTER X.
LETTER XI.
PART III. — 1842.
LETTER I.
LETTER II.
LETTER III.
LETTER IV.
LETTER V.
LETTER VI.
LETTER VII.
LETTER VIII.
LETTER IX.
LETTER X.
LETTER XI.
LETTER XII.
LETTER XIII.
LETTER XIV.
LETTER XV.
LETTER XVI.
LETTER XVII.
LETTER XVIII.
LETTER XIX.
LETTER XX.
LETTER XXI.
LETTER XXII.
LETTER XXIII.
Sir Percy Florence Shelley, 3rd Baronet was the son and only surviving child of Percy Bysshe Shelley and Mary Shelley. This is a later caricature of Percy Florence Shelley, who accompanied his mother on her German travels
RAMBLES IN GERMANY AND ITALY.
TO
SAMUEL ROGERS,
AUTHOR OF “THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY,”
“ITALY,” ETC.
THESE VOLUMES ARE DEDICATED,
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF
RESPECT, GRATITUDE, AND AFFECTION,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
I HAVE found it a pleasant thing while travelling to have in the carriage the works of those who have passed through the same country. Sometimes they inform, sometimes they excite curiosity. If alone, they serve as society; if with others, they suggest matter for conversation.
These Volumes were thus originated. Visiting spots often described, pursuing a route such as form for the most part the common range of the tourist — I could tell nothing new, except as each individual’s experience possesses novelty. While I passed in haste from city to city; as I travelled through mountain-passes or over vast extents of country, I put down the daily occurrences — a guide, a pioneer, or simply a fellow-traveller, for those who came after me.
When I reached Italy, however, and came south, I found that I could say little of Florence and Rome, as far as regarded the cities themselves, that had not been said so often and so well before, that I was satisfied to select from my letters such portions merely as touched upon subjects that I had not found mentioned elsewhere. It was otherwise as regarded the people, especially in a political point of view; and in treating of them my scope grew more serious.
I believe that no one can mingle much with the Italians without becoming attached to them. Their faults injure each other; their good qualities make them agreeable to strangers. Their courtesy, their simplicity of manner, their evident desire to serve, their rare and exceeding intelligence, give to the better specimens among the higher classes, and to many among the lower, a charm all their own. In addition, therefore, to being a mere gossiping companion to a traveller, I would fain say something that may incite others to regard them favourably; something explanatory of their real character. But to speak of the state of Italy and the Italians —
Non è poléggîo da picciola barca
Quel, che fendendo va l’ardita prora,
Nè da nocchier, ch’a se medesmo parca.
When I began to put together what I knew, I found it too scant of circumstance and experience to form a whole. I could only sketch facts, guess at causes, hope for results. I have said little, therefore; but what I have said, I believe that I may safely declare, may be depended, upon.
Time was, when travels in Italy were filled with contemptuous censures of the effeminacy of the Italians — diatribes against the vice and cowardice of the nobles — sneers at the courtly verses of the poets, who were content to celebrate a marriage or a birth among the great: — their learned men fared better, for there were always writers in Italy whose names adorned European letters — yet still contempt was the general tone; and of late years travellers (with the exception of Lady Morgan, whose book is dear to the Italians), parrot the same, not because these things still exist, but because they know no better.
Italy is, indeed, much changed. Their historians no longer limit themselves to disputing dates, but bum with enthusiasm for liberty; their poets, Manzoni and Niccolini at their head, direct their efforts to elevating and invigorating the public mind. The country itself wears a new aspect; it is struggling with its fetters, — not only with the material ones that weigh on it so heavily, and which they endure with a keen sense of shame, but with those that have entered into and bind the soul — superstition, luxury, servility, indolence, violence, vice.
Since the date of these letters Italy has been much disturbed, — but the risings and their unfortunate consequences to individuals, are regarded by us with contempt, or excite only a desire of putting an end to them as detrimental to the sufferers, withou
t being of any utility to the cause of civilisation and moral improvement. Yet it ought not to be forgotten, that the oppression suffered in that portion of the country which has been recently convulsed, is such as to justify Dr. Johnson’s proposition, that “if the abuse be enormous, Nature will rise up, and claiming her original rights, overturn a corrupt political system.”
Englishmen, in particular, ought to sympathise in their struggles; for the aspiration for free institutions all over the world has its source in England. Our example first taught the French nobility to seek to raise themselves from courtiers into legislators. The American war of independence, it is true, quickened this impulse, by showing the; way to a successful resistance to the undue exercise of authority; but the seed was all sown by us. The swarms of English that overrun Italy keep the feeling alive. An Italian gentleman naturally envies an Englishman, hereditary or elective legislator. He envies him his pride of country, in which he himself can in no way indulge. He knows, at best, that his sovereign is a weak tool in the hands of a foreign potentate; and that all that is aimed at by the governments that rule him, is to benefit Austria — not Italy. But this forms but a small portion of his wrongs. He sees that we enjoy the privilege of doing and saying whatever we please, so that we infringe no law. If he write a book, it is submitted to the censor, and if it be marked by any boldness of opinion, it is suppressed. If he attempt any plan for the improvement of his countrymen, he is checked; if a tardy permission be given him to proceed, it is clogged with such conditions as nullify the effect. If he limit his endeavours to self-improvement, he is suspected — Surrounded by spies; while his friends share in the odium that attaches to him. The result of such persecution is to irritate or discourage. He either sinks into the Circean Stye, in which so many drag out a degraded existence, or he is irresistibly impelled to resist. No way to mitigate the ills he groans under, or to serve his countrymen, is open, except secret societies. The mischievous effects of such to those who are implicated in them, are unspeakably great. They fear a spy in the man who shares their oath; their acts are dark, and treachery hovers close. The result is inevitable; their own moral sense is tampered with, and becomes vitiated; or, if they escape this evil, and preserve the ingenuousness of a free and noble nature, they are victims.
