by Mary Shelley
The style of Niccolini’s tragedies is looked upon by his countrymen as a perfect model for the romantic drama. It is elevated and yet natural. The poet rises to the height of his argument; his versification is harmonious yet severe — his imagery rich and choice; his tone is majestic, and through all there glows an ineffable love of his art. Niccolini is celebrated also as a lyric poet; but as far as I have read, he falls very short of Manzoni. As a prose writer he has as yet only published his speeches delivered in the Accademia delle belle Arti. They justify his reputation for research, and may be pointed out as models of style and eloquence; he proves himself in them to be an original thinker, and capable of understanding and judging the age in which he lives.
Niccolini joins to his intellectual greatness a character that makes him the darling of his native city. Devoid of vanity, of pure and exemplary life, he passes his days at Florence, surrounded by friends who respect and love him. He is at present busily occupied by an arduous work, the “History of the House of Swabia.”
Italy, from the earliest times, has been renowned for its historians. From Dino Compagni and Villani until Botta, Colletta, and Amari, the Italians appear to inherit the art of narrating events, and describing men and countries, as well as of deducing philosophical conclusions from the experience of past ages.
Colletta’s “History of the Kingdom of Naples, from the year 1734 till the year 1825,” is a remarkable work, as not being the production of an author who spent his life among books, but of a man who bore a distinguished part in the political and military affairs of his time, and who was somewhat advanced in years when, exiled from his country, he dedicated himself to the study of his native language and the composition of his history.
The first publications of Colletta consisted of a “Narrative of the Revolution of Naples in 1820,” and the “History of the Death of Murat.” The vigour of his style, the truth that reigned in his narrative, and the warmth of enthusiasm that animated his pen, attracted attention, and received, applause. To a certain degree an adherent of the French rule in Naples, though fully aware of its faults and its injustice, he, in the account of the death of Murat, undertook, with just indignation, to defend the illustrious partizans of the fallen sovereign, whom the minister, Medici, falsely accused of having ensnared and betrayed him; throwing the blame where it was due, on the rashness of the victim and the baseness of his enemies. This narration is incorporated in his history, and forms one of its most striking passages. It seems to me one of the finest pieces of writing in the world — full of a mournful dignity, that renders its pathos touching, and gives grandeur to its scorn.
A few pages are prefixed to his history, written, I believe, by his friend Count Gino Capponi, which gives an account of his life. While yet a mere boy; he was imprisoned by Ferdinand on a slight suspicion of liberalism, and with difficulty escaped with his life. He, though his name is omitted by French writers, accompanied the soldiers of Murat in their attack upon Capri, and by his gallantry and sagacity mainly contributed to its success. Many important posts, both civil and military, were entrusted to him by Murat, and, on his return, by Ferdinand, and he acquitted himself in all with reputation. He acted at once a prudent, firm, and patriotic part, during the Neapolitan revolution. But though Ferdinand employed, frequently consulted, and often followed his advice, this did not save him after the Austrian invasion. He was first imprisoned at Brünn, in Moravia, at the foot of the Castle of Spielburg, of infamous renown; afterwards, as his health failed, he was allowed to transfer himself to Tuscany. During his severer imprisonment and milder exile, ever ambitious of a noble fame, he meditated his future work. First, he applied himself to the study of his native tongue, forming his style on that of Tacitus; and then, armed with the strength of pictorial and vigorous language, he dedicated himself to the compilation of his history.
An eye witness of many of the events which he narrates, and frequently a prominent actor in them, he strives to be impartial both to friends and enemies. He has not, however, escaped the blame of undue bias. He expresses his opinions at times with too much passion, displaying excessive severity against his rivals or opponents in his military career. This, however, is not much; and, with very slight drawbacks, he may be esteemed worthy of the reader’s confidence. He knew the men whose character he draws, and these individual portraits give value to the work they contribute to adorn. Among them may be named, in especial, that of the infamous Canosa, and the youthful hero, Emanuel de Deo. Even more admirable are his striking descriptions, after the manner of Tacitus. If you shrink from undertaking the whole work, read the accounts of the earthquake in Calabria in 1783 — of the executions of 1799 — of the death of the unfortunate Murat — of the tragical fate of the Vardarelli — and the character of the reign of Ferdinand, at the conclusion. It will be difficult to find finer passages in any history.
He came to Florence in 1823, and died on 11th November, 1831. The interval was spent in composing his work, and rendered happy by his intimate friendship with two Italians, esteemed as the cleverest men of their time, Count Gino Capponi and Valeriani, translator of Tacitus. These friends assisted him with their counsels and criticisms — some Italians go so far as to consider Gino Capponi the writer of the history. But others, who associated with Colletta and his friends at Florence, have assured me that this supposition is entirely erroneous.
Quite lately, another historical work has appeared, the production of a young Sicilian, Michele Amari, who promises, from his talents, his industry, and the admirable spirit of his book, to add another illustrious name to Italy.
The Sicilian Vespers was a tremendous event, which astonished and confounded the nations, and even in Italy was ill understood by contemporary historians. It was supposed to be the result of a conspiracy formed by Giovanni da Procida, under the auspices of Don Pedro, King of Arragon, who reaped the fruits. Amari, on consulting the archives of Sicily, found reason at first to suspect the truth of, and afterwards entirely to reject, this explanation of an event, which, in this light, could only be regarded as a cruel massacre — but which, from the documents he adduces, he proves to have resulted, not from a treacherous conspiracy, but from the sudden impulse of a people maltreated and insulted to desperation; whose only defence was the knife, whose only safety rested in utterly rooting out their oppressors.
Fired with generous sympathy for a people who, against a fearful odds, resolved to liberate themselves from a barbarous foreign oppression, Amari relates the events of the war that followed the massacre with glowing eloquence. The history of the siege of Messina may take place beside the noble resistance of Numantia and Saragossa, with the more cheering result that it was successful. This portion of his work, and the subsequent chapters that describe the last war and death of Don Pedro of Arragon, are admirably written. You will scarcely find in any historian a more animated and graphic narration than that which tells how Don Pedro, deserted by all, hated by all, proudly and sternly, and at last successfully, stood his ground against his numerous and triumphant foes.
It is the work of a young man, and of a Sicilian, who had to learn and form the language in which he writes. The style wants elegance; the construction of the history is imperfect, and, at times, rambling; but it has the first and best merit of a work of genius — it is written from the heart. The enthusiasm of the author carries the reader along with him; you forget the imperfections in the justness of his reflections, and the sincerity of his convictions; you excuse the absence of methodical order as you are carried away by the interest which he throws over the facts he narrates.
LETTER XVII.
Voyage to Rome.
MARCH 20.
I left England, as you know, with very vague ideas of whither I should go. I did not dare entertain a hope that I should visit Rome. But, “Thought by thought, and step by step led on,”
We have reached what Dr. Johnson says is the aim of every man’s desire.
My companions dreaded a long veturino journey, whose l
eisure is a false lure, since you always arrive too late, and set out too early, to see anything in the towns where you stop. I consented to go by sea, and Heaven rewarded the act of self-sacrifice.
We left Florence at twelve at night, in one of the most uncomfortable veturino carriages I ever had the ill fortune to enter. The moon was near its full, and its bright snow-like glare almost blinded my friends, who rode outside, and prevented them from sleeping. The morning dawned golden and still; and, although it was March, we anticipated a calm voyage. So it proved. We embarked on board the “Castor,” a small, but well-built and quick steamer, and dropped down towards Elba. The view from the sea near Leghorn is not sufficiently praised. The Ligurian Alps
“Towards the North appeared,
Thro’ mist, a heaven: sustaining bulwark, reared
Between the east and west.”
The sun went down beneath the sea, and the full moon rose at the same moment from behind the promontory of Piombino — hazy at first, — but as she rose higher, assuming her place as radiant Queen of Night. We passed between the island of Elba, whose dark and distinct outline rose out of the calm water, and the shadowy form of distant Corsica; as we proceeded, other and other islands appeared studding the tranquil deep, and varying its sublime monotony. It was very difficult to consent to shut one’s eyes on so very fair a scene.
At sunrise we were on deck again, and the steamer, with that sort of pride which a boat always seems to exhibit when it reaches its bourne, entered the harbour of Civita Vecchia. We were detained for pratique till eight o’clock, when the Governor got up, and for three hours we had full leisure to contemplate the growth of the morning on the sea, and to feel tired of conjectures about the towers and buildings on shore. As soon as we landed, and had breakfasted, and were refreshed, we set off in a separate diligence for the Eternal City.
The road for some miles bordered the sea. The shore is varied by little bays, inlets, and promontories — every five miles is a watch-tower, — the Maremma is spread around, deadly in its influence on man, but in appearance, a wild, verdant, varied pasture land, with here and there a grove of trees, and broken into hill and dale: the waves sparkled on our right; the land stretched out pleasant to the eye on the left; mountains showed themselves on the horizon. No one can look on this country as merely so much earth — every clod is a sacred relic — every stone is an object of curiosity — every name we hear satisfies some desire or awakens some cherished association. And thus, in a sort of trance of delight, we were whirled along, till the old walls appeared. We entered by the Janiculum, and skirted the Place of St. Peter’s; then the pleasant spell was snapped, as we had to turn our thoughts to custom-houses, hotels, and all the worry of arrival.
Evening advanced; but what ailed the Romans? they were all looking up at the sky — it was an epidemic — in crowds or singly, not an eye looked straightforward; all were looking at the heavens; — at a turn in the street we looked too, and saw in the south a long trail of glowing light; we were the more surprised, as we had perceived nothing of the sort the previous night at sea. It was a comet, of course; — does it shine in your more northern hemisphere? here, it loses itself among the stars of Orion, while the nucleus is below the visible horizon; — it is bright, yet the stars shine through its web-like texture, which, composed of thin beams, is stretched out, and you may see delicate sea-weeds — or aquatic plants in a stream, through a large space of the heavens.
LETTER XVIII.
Raffaelle at Rome.
APRIL 5.
The multitude of pictures and statues at Rome is such, that it is quite impossible to give the most cursory account of the Galleries. I have been more struck even than I expected, by what I have seen; the limits of man’s power appear enlarged to the uttermost verge of all that the imagination can conceive of beautiful and great.
The admirable proportion of the temple-like chambers in which the finest relics of ancient statuary are placed — the snatches of views that you catch, from open windows, of the papal gardens and the country around the city, renders a visit to the Vatican a step out of every-day life into a world adorned by the works of the highest genius of all countries and all times. It is a great pity that they are not arranged in a manner to instruct the spectator as to the age and schools to which they belong — the collection at the Vatican greatly needs to be regulated by enlightened criticism — but here, everything is done from paltry motives: a man, who in some way can command patronage, writes a catalogue of all the statues, and changes their numbers and places, to make it necessary that you should buy his book; so that those who go with the elaborate and learned works of German critics in their hands, find every reference a mistake, and get hopelessly embroiled, It is said that all the works of ancient Grecian sculpture bear the character of divine repose; and that those statues which are in attitudes of action, are the works of Greeks, indeed, but executed when Greece was a province, at the command of Roman masters. Among such, is the Apollo Belvidere, which is not adorned by the faultless perfection of Athenian art — yet who can criticise? As I entered the compartment in which he stands, a divine presence seemed to fill the chamber. The godlike archer is stepping forward; his gesture and look breathe the eagerness and gladness of victory. In some sort, this statue is the ideal of a youthful hero — but he is not human — there is no trace of the chivalrous feeling, that even in triumph honours the fallen. He is above fear and above pity.
From room to room the eye is so fed by sights of beauty, “that the sense aches at them;” truly the limbs unwillingly fail. From the halls of the statues you go through long galleries filled with funereal urns, ancient maps, and old tapestry worked from Raffaelle’s cartoons, into rooms where the paintings are. It is managed so, that when you have passed through all, you quit the rooms by the loggie of Raffaelle, and the Swiss on guard does not permit you to return; — there is no great harm in this — as it would be nearly impossible to walk the whole way back again. Visitors ought, nevertheless, to be allowed to enter by this door at choice, that they may at once reach the pictures without the extra labour of traversing the extensive galleries that lead to them. Of the oil paintings we see here, the San Geronimo by Domenichino is perhaps the finest. Of the Transfiguration I have before spoken: as a composition, it is esteemed the grandest picture in the world; but I turn from it to others (to the Madonna di Foligno, for instance) of an earlier date, in which there is a more heavenly grace; an expression of celestial and pure beauty, an emanation of the immortal soul, superior to any perfection of colouring or grouping.
But it is among the frescos of Raffaelle that I have lingered longest with the greatest delight. These were the first works of this matchless painter, when called to Rome. He had been soliciting leave to be associated with Leonardo da Vinci and Michaél Angelo in painting the halls of the Palazzo Vecchio, at Florence, when Pope Julios II. called him to Rome, and gave him in charge to adorn the walls of the Vatican.
At this time Michael Angelo was, I will not say, his rival; but, as he painted the Sistine Chapel while Raffaelle was engaged upon the Vatican, a passion of generous emulation rose in the heart of the latter that spurred him on to work with indefatigable ardour. As Lanzi tells us, the subjects chosen for these halls elevated his imagination. They were not scenes from old mythology, “but the mysteries of the noblest science—’the most august circumstances pertaining to religion, and military deeds whose result established peace and faith in the world.” None better than Raffaelle could achieve this work; for of all men he had firmest hold of “that golden chain which is let down from Heaven, and with a divine enthusiasm ravishes our souls, made to the image of God, and stirs us up to comprehend the innate and incorruptible beauty to which we were once created.”
He began by the figures of Theology, Philosophy, Poetry, and Jurisprudence, on the arched roof of one of the rooms. The figures of Theology and Poetry, particularly the latter, are in the highest style of mystic art. The picture named the Dispute of the Sacrament
— if that be the name of a picture which is, after all, nameless — covers one of the walls. There is an assemblage of all the doctors of the church, and among them Raffaelle boldly placed Dante, with his laurel crown, and, still more boldly, Savanarola, who ten years before had been publicly burned at Florence as a heretic. Above these groups, heaven opens, and the Trinity and the Angels are congregated. By the lovers of the mystic school, this picture is preferred to every other; yet I was more struck by that which represents the Vision driving Heliodorus from the Temple. The story, as told in the Apocrypha, is fitted to excite the imagination. Through the relation of Simon, Seleucus sent Heliodorus, his treasurer, to seize on the wealth of the Temple, laid up by Onias, the High Priest, for the relief of widows and fatherless children. When Heliodorus entered the Temple to execute the king’s command, “there was no small agony throughout the whole city. Then, whoso looked the high priest in the face, it would have wounded his heart; for his countenance, and the changing of his colour, declared the inward agony of his mind.” The whole city flocked, transported by indignation and grief. “And all, holding up their hands to heaven, made supplication.” Heliodorus, nevertheless, persisted; but when he presented himself at the treasury, “the Lord of Spirits, and the Prince of all power, caused a great apparition, so that all that presumed to come in with him were astonished at the power of God, and fainted, and were sore afraid.”
It is deemed the triumph of art to adorn the real with something grander than meets the ordinary gaze; but to paint the superhuman, and convey to the eyes the image of that which surpasses the might of visible objects, and can scarcely be conceived by the strongest effort of the imagination, is that which Raffaelle only could achieve. In this fresco the vision of a “horse with a terrible rider “ fills the beholder with awe — the one shakes terror from his looks, while the horse may be seen to neigh and breathe destruction around. The figures of the two youths, “notable in strength, and excellent in beauty,” who are driving the spoiler with scourges from the Temple, are divine in swiftness and might. Celestial indignation animates their gestures, and motion was never painted so real, so impetuous, so uncontrollable.
