Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth, Vol. 2 (of 2)

by Dorothy Wordsworth

But I have yet only looked beyond the mount. There is a house beside the Chapel, probably in former times inhabited by persons devoted to religious services—or it might be only destined for the same use for which it serves at present, a shelter for them who flock from the vallies to the yearly Festival. Repairs are going on in the Chapel, which was struck with lightning a few years ago, and all but the altar and its holy things, with the image of the Patron Saint, destroyed. Their preservation is an established miracle, and the surrounding peasantry consider the memorials as sanctified anew by that visitation from heaven.

Tuesday, August 28th.—Menaggio.—We took the opposite (the eastern) side of the lake, intending to land, and ascend to the celebrated source of the Fiume Latte (River of Milk). Following the curves of the shore came to a grey-white village, and landed upon the rocky bank (there is no road or pathway along this margin of the lake; and every village has its own boats). Mounting by a flight of rugged steps, we were at once under a line of houses fronting the water; and after climbing up the steep, walked below those houses, the lake beneath us on our left. All at once, from that sunny spot we came upon a rugged bridge; shady all round—cool breezes rising up from the rocky cleft where in twilight gloom (so it appears to eyes saturated with light) a copious stream—the Fiume Latte—is hurrying with leap and bound to the great lake. Our object, as I have said, was the fountain of that torrent. We mounted up the hill by rocky steeps, and pathways, in some places almost perpendicular, the precipice all the way being built up by low walls hung with vines. The earth thus supported is covered with melons, pumpkins, Indian corn, chestnut-trees, fig-trees, and trees now scattering ripe plums. The ascent was truly laborious. On the lake we had never been oppressed by the heat; here it was almost too much even for me: but when we reached the desired spot, where the torrent drops from its marble cavern, as clear as crystal, how delicious the coolness of the breeze! The water issues silently from the cold cavern, slides but a very little way over the rock, then bounds in a short cataract, and rushes rapidly to the lake. The evergreen Arbutus and the prickly-leaved Alaturnus grow in profusion on the rocks bordering the Fiume Latte; and there, in remembrance of Rydal Mount, where we had been accustomed to see one or two bushes of those plants growing in the garden, we decked our bonnets, mingling the glossy leaves of those evergreen shrubs with that beautiful lilac flower first seen in the ascent of St. Salvador. An active youth was our guide, and a useful one in helping us over the rocks. A woman, too, had joined the train; but Mary and I showing her that she was neither useful nor welcome, she began to employ her time in plucking the bunches of Indian corn, laying them in a heap. We could have lingered a whole summer's day over the cascades and limpid pools of the Fiume Latte.

Saturday, September 1st.—Milan.—Our object this morning was to ascend to the roof, where I remained alone, not venturing to follow the rest of the party to the top of the giddy, central spire, which is ascended by a narrow staircase twisted round the outside. Even W. was obliged to trust to a hand governed by a steadier head than his own. I wandered about with space spread around me, on the roof on which I trod, for streets and even squares of no very diminutive town. The floor on which I trod was all of polished marble, intensely hot, and as dazzling as snow; and instead of moving figures I was surrounded by groups and stationary processions of silent statues—saints, sages, and angels. It is impossible for me to describe the beautiful spectacle, or to give a notion of the delight I felt; therefore I will copy a sketch in verse composed from my brother's recollections of the view from the central spire.

Sunday, September 2nd.—Milan.—A grand military Mass was to be administered at eight o'clock in the Place d'Armes, Buonaparte's field for reviewing his troops. Hitherward we set out at seven; but arrived a little too late. The ceremony was begun; and it was some time before we could obtain a better situation than among the crowds pressed together in the glaring sunshine, as close as they could come to the building where the temporary altar was placed. The ground being level nothing was to be seen but heads of people, and a few of the lines of soldiers, and their glittering fire-arms; but we could perceive that at one time they dropped down on their knees. At length, having got admittance into the building (le Palais des Rois), near which we stood, almost stifled with heat, we had a complete view from a balcony of all that remained to be performed of the ceremonies, military and religious; but of the latter, that part was over in which the soldiers took any visible share, though the service was still going on, at the altar below us, as was proclaimed by the sound of sacred music, which upon minds unfamiliarised to such scenes had an irresistible power to solemnise a spectacle more distinguished by parade, glitter, and flashy colours, than anything else. The richly caparisoned prancing steeds of the officers, their splendid dresses, the numerous lines of soldiers standing upon the green grass (though not of mountain hue it looked green in contrast with their habiliments), and the immense numbers of men, women, and children gathered together upon a level space—where space was left for thousands and tens of thousands more—all these may easily be imagined:—with the full concert of the military band, when the sacred music ceased—the marching of the troops off the field—Austrians, Hungarians, and Italians—and, last of all, the cavalry with the heart-stirring blast of their trumpets. Before we left the field, the crowd was gone, the tinselled altar and other fineries taken down—and we saw people busied in packing them up, very much like a company of players with their paraphernalia.

Went also to the Convent of Maria della Grazia to view that most famous picture of the Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci, painted on the wall at one end of the Refectory, a very large hall, hung along the sides with smaller pictures and, at the other end, that painting of the crucifixion of which we had seen a copy at Lugano. This Refectory was used in the days of Buonaparte as a military storehouse, and the mark of a musket-ball, fired in wantonness by a French soldier, is to be seen in one part of the painting of Leonardo da Vinci. Fortunately the ball hit where the injury was as small as it could have been; and it is only marvellous that this fine work was not wholly defaced during those times of military misrule and utter disregard of all sacred things.[59] Little conversant in pictures, I cannot take upon me to describe this, which impressed my feelings and imagination more than any picture I ever saw, though some of the figures are so injured by damp that they are only just traceable. The most important are, however, happily the least injured; and that of Our Saviour has only suffered from a general fading in the colours, yet, alas! the fading and vanishing must go on year after year till, at length, the whole group must pass away. Through the cloisters of the monastery, which are shattered and defaced, pictures are found in all parts, and there are some curious monuments.

Wednesday, September 5th.—Cadenabbia.—Bent our course toward Fuentes—and after a wearisome walk through damp and breathless heat (a full league or more) over a perfect level, we reached the foot of the eminence, which from the lake had appeared to be at a small distance, but it seemed to have retreated as we advanced. We had left the high road, and trudged over the swampy plain, through which the road must have been made with great expense and labour, as it is raised considerably all the way. The picturesque ruins of the Castle of Fuentes are at the top of the eminence—wild vines, the bramble and the clematis cling to the bushes; and beautiful flowers grow in the chinks of the rocks, and on every bed of grass. A tempting though rugged ascent—yet (with the towers in sight above our heads, and two-thirds of the labour accomplished) Mary and I (Wm. having gone before to discover the nearest and least difficult way for us) sate down determined not to go a step further. We had a grand prospect; and, being exhausted by the damp heat, were willing for once to leave our final object unattained. However, while seated on the ground, two stout hard-laboured peasants chancing to come close to us on the path, invited us forward, and we could not resist—they led the way—two rough creatures. I said to Mary when we were climbing up among the rocks and bushes in that wild and lonely place, "What, you have no fear of trusting yourself to a pair of Italian Banditti?" I knew not their occupation, but an accurate description of their persons, would have fitted a novel-writer with ready-made attendants for a tribe of robbers—good-natured and kind, however, they were, nay, even polite in their rustic way as others tutored to city civility. Cultivated vines grew upon the top of the hill; and they took pains to pluck for us the ripest grapes. We now had a complete view up the great vale of the Adda, to which the road that we had left conducts the traveller. Below us, on the other side, lay a wide green marshy plain, between the hill of Fuentes and the shores of the lake; which plain, spreading upwards, divides the lake; the upper small reach being called Chiavenna. The path which my brother had travelled, when bewildered in the night thirty years ago, was traceable through some parts of the forest on the opposite side:—and the very passage through which he had gone down to the shore of the lake—then most dismal with thunder, lightning, and rain. I hardly can conceive a place of more solitary aspect than the lake of Chiavenna: and the whole of the prospect on that direction is characterised by melancholy sublimity. We rejoiced, after our toil, at being favoured with a distinct view of those sublime heights, not, it is true, steeped in celestial hues of sunny glory, yet in communion with clouds, floating or stationary:—scatterings from heaven. The ruin itself is very interesting, both in the mass and in detail—an inscription is lying on the ground which records that the Castle was built by the Count of Fuentes in the year 1600, and the Chapel about twenty years after by one of his descendants. Some of the gateways are yet standing with their marble pillars, and a considerable part of the walls of the Chapel. A smooth green turf has taken the place of the pavement; and we could see no trace of altar or sacred image, but everywhere something to remind one of former grandeur and of destruction and tumult, while there was, in contrast with the imaginations so excited, a melancholy pleasure in contemplating the wild quietness of the present day. The vines, near the ruin, though ill tended, grow willingly, and rock, turf, and fragments of the stately pile are alike covered or adorned with a variety of flowers, among which the rose-coloured pink was in great beauty. In our descent we found a fair white cherub, uninjured by the explosion which had driven it a great way down the hill. It lay bedded like an infant in its cradle among low green bushes—W. said to us, "Could we but carry this pretty Image to our moss summer-house at Rydal Mount!" yet it seemed as if it would have been a pity that any one should remove it from its couch in the wilderness, which may be its own for hundreds of years.

Thursday, September 6th.—Cadenabbia.—After a night of heavy rain, a bright morning. W., M., and I set off toward Menaggio along the terrace bordering the water, which led us to the bay at the foot of the rocky green hill of the Church of our Lady; and there we came upon the track of the old road, the very same which my brother had paced! for there was no other, nor the possibility of one. That track, continued from the foot of the mountain, leads behind the town of Cadenabbia, cutting off the bending of the shore by which we had come to this point. From the bare precipice, we pass through shade and sunshine, among spreading vines, slips of green turf, or gardens of melons, gourds, maize, and fig-trees among the rocks; it was but for a little space, yet enough to make our regret even more lively than before that it had not been in our power to coast one reach at least of the lake on foot. We had been overtaken by a fine tall man, who somewhat proudly addressed us in English. After twenty years' traffic in our country he had been settled near his native place on the Banks of Como, having purchased an estate near Cadenabbia with the large sum of two thousand pounds, acquired by selling barometers, looking-glasses, etc. He had been used to return to his wife every third year in the month of October. He made preparations during the winter for fresh travels in the spring; at the same time working with her on the small portion of land which they then possessed. Portsmouth and Plymouth were the grand marts for his wares. He amused us with recitals of adventures among the sailors, who used to bully him with, "Come, you rogue, you get your money easily enough; spend it freely!" and he did not care if he got rid of a guinea or two; for he was sure to have it back again after one of the frolics—and much more. They would often clear away his whole stock of nick-nacks. This industrious trader used to travel on foot at the rate of from thirty to forty miles a day, and his expenses from London to Como were but three guineas, though it cost him one-third of that sum to get to Calais. He said he liked England because the people were honest, and told us some stories illustrative of English honesty and Italian over-reaching in bargains. This amusing and, I must say, interesting companion, turned from us by a side-path before we reached Menaggio, saying he would meet us again, as our road would lead us near his cottage on the heights, and he should see us from the fields. He had another dwelling on his estate beside Cadenabbia, where the land produced excellent wine. The produce of his farm on the hills was chiefly hay, which they were then gathering in.

Sunday, September 9th.—Domo d'Ossola.—We rose at 5 o'clock. The morning clear and very cold. Mr. M., R. and G. intended to take the diligence; W., Mary, and I to walk; for, having been so much gratified with our journey over St. Gothard, we had determined to cross the Simplon also on foot. M. set forward first; I followed a few minutes after defended from cold by my woollen cloak. W. was left to dispose of the luggage, which (except a small bundle carried by each) we intended to send by the diligence. Shops already open. Bought some bread, and made my way directly through the town. At the end of it, looked back upon its towers and large houses, prettily situated, as on a plain, under steep hills—some of them separate mounts, distinct in form. I could not but regret that we might not linger half a day, and ascend to the Chapel of Mount Calvary, still much resorted to for its peculiar sanctity. The view from that commanding eminence would have enabled us to bear away more distinct remembrances than I, at least, have done, of a town well deserving to be remembered, for it must for ages back have been of importance, as lying at the foot of this pass of the Alps. After a mile's quick walking I grew a little uneasy at not having overtaken Mary. Behind and before, Buonaparte's broad, unshaded road was stretched out in a right line. However convenient such roads for conquest or traffic, they are, of all others, the least pleasant to the foot-traveller, whose labours seem no nearer to their end till some natural impediment must be submitted to, and the road pursues another course. Looking forward I could see nothing of Mary, and the way being sprinkled with passengers, I was more perplexed, thinking it probable that her figure before me, or behind, might be undiscoverable among them, but my pace (to warm myself in the nipping air) had been so quick, it seemed more likely that she had not advanced so far; therefore I sate down: and glad I was, after some time, to espy her blue gown among the scatterings of women in scarlet garments. She had missed her way in the town and gone back in quest of me. The fresh morning air helped us cheerfully over the long line of road; and passengers whom we continually met amused us. Some were travellers from the Alps; but they were much more frequently peasants bent on Sunday's devotion and pleasure, chiefly women, awkward in appearance, short of stature, and deformed by their manner of fastening the full round petticoat lifted up almost to the shoulders.

It pleased me now to review our course from Bavena, where this our second ascent of the Alps may be said to begin; the princely reach of the Lake then before us, with its palaces and towns, thence towards the mountains and the vale of Tusa, solitary churches on the steeps—ruins—embowered low stone cottages—vineyards and extensive lawns—cattle with their bells, and peasants tending them. The romantic village of Vergogne, its ruined fortress overlooking the narrow dell and torrent's bed—inhabited houses as grey with age as the ruin itself—and, upon the level below, how delightful was it, in our hour of rest and sauntering, to quit the sunshine, and walk under roofs of vines! Further on, the vale more wide and open—large meadows without trees. Hay-makers—straggling travellers on the outstretched road. Villages under green mountains—snowy mountains gilded by the light of the setting sun!

Now, from Domo d'Ossola we were proceeding on the same unbending road, up the same vale, a scene of desolation and fertility, vines by the wayside, the grapes hardly ripening. Having ascended a long hill to Crevola, where there is a small public-house, at which we had thought of stopping to breakfast, the road crosses a remarkably high and massy bridge, over the chasm of Val di Vedro, whence the river Vedro takes its course down to the vale of Tusa, now below us on our right hand, where, towards the centre of the vale, the village of Crevola stands on an eminence, whence the morning sound of bells was calling the people together. We turned to the left, up the shady side of Val di Vedro; at first, the road led us high above the bed of the torrent. Being now enclosed between the barriers of that deep dell, we had left all traces of vineyards, fruit-trees, and fields. Beeches climb up among the crags to the summit of the steeps. The road descends; traces of the ancient track visible near a bridge of one lofty arch, no longer used by the traveller crossing the Alps, yet I went to the centre to look down on the torrent. Traces of the foundation of a former bridge remain in the chasm. Met a few peasants going to the vale below, and sometimes a traveller. Again we climb the hill, all craggy forest. At a considerable height from the river's bed an immense column of granite lies by the wayside, as if its course had been stopped there by tidings of Napoleon's overthrow. It was intended by him for his unfinished triumphal arch at Milan; and I wish it may remain prostrate on the mountain for ages to come. His bitterest foe could scarcely contrive a more impressive record of disappointed vanity and ambition. The sledge upon which it has been dragged from the quarry is rotted beneath it, while the pillar remains as fresh and sparkling as if hewn but yesterday. W., who came after us, said he had named it the "weary stone" in memory of that immense stone in the wilds of Peru, so called by the Indians because after 20,000 of them had dragged it over heights and hollows it tumbled down a precipice, and rested immovable at the bottom, where it must for ever remain. Ere long we come to the first passage through the rocks, near the river's bed, and "Road and River" for some time fill the bottom of the valley. We miss the bright torrents that stream down the hills bordering the Tessino; but here is no want of variety. We are in closer neighbourhood with the crags; hence their shapes are continually changing, and their appearance is the more commanding; and, wherever an old building is seen, it is overspread with the hues of the natural crags, and is in form of accordant irregularity. The very road itself, however boldly it may bestride the hills or pierce the rocks, is yet the slave of nature, its windings often being governed as imperiously as those of the Vedra within the chasm of the glen. Suddenly the valley widens, opening out to the right in a semicircle. A sunny village with a white church appears before us, rather I should say numerous hamlets and scattered houses. Here again were vines, and grapes almost full grown, though none ripening. Leaving the sunshine, we again are enclosed between the steeps, a small ruined Convent on the right, the painting on the outside nearly effaced by damp. We come to the second passage, or gallery, through the rocks. It is not long, but very grand, especially viewed in combination with the crags, woods, and river, here tumbling in short cascades, its channel strewn with enormous ruins. W. had joined us about a league before we reached this point; and we sate long in admiration of the prospect up the valley, seen beyond the arch of the gallery which is supported by a pillar left in the rock out of which the passage has been hewn. A brown hamlet at the foot of the mountains terminates this reach of the valley, which has again widened a little. A steep glen to the left sends down a boisterous stream to the Vedra. We had walked three leagues; and were told we were near the Inn, where we were to breakfast, and, having left the gallery 200 yards behind, saw more of the village (called Isella) and a large, square, white building appeared, which proved to be a military station and the post-house, near which was our Inn.... Leaving now the Piedmontese dominions, we make our last entrance into the country of the Swiss. Deciduous trees gradually yield to pine-trees and larches, and through these forests, interspersed with awful crags, we pass on, still in cool shade, accompanied by the turbulent river. Here is hardly a slip of pasturage to be seen, still less a plot of tillage (how different from the Pass of the Ticino!) all is rocks, precipices, and forests. We pass several places of Refuge, as they are named, the word refuge being inscribed upon their walls in large characters. They are small, square, white, unpicturesque buildings (erected by Buonaparte). The old road is not unfrequently traceable for a short way—Mary once detected it by noticing an Oratory above our heads that turned its back towards us, now neglected and facing the deserted track.