[1] After the death of Dante, the Florentines, ashamed of having permitted him to perish far from his home, sent a deputation to the pope for his remains, interred at Ravenna. The pope refused; rightly deeming that the land which had sheltered him in exile must have become his country, and deserved not to be thus robbed of the glory that shone around his tomb.
[2] Alfieri said, that it was in the church of Santa Croce he first felt a love for fame. The epitaph he composed for himself and the Countess d'Albani is most simply and affectingly expressive of long and perfect friendship.
[CHAPTER IV.]
The spring of feeling which had consoled Corinne for a few moments, led her next morning to the Gallery: she hoped to recover her taste, and draw some pleasure from her former pursuits. Even the fine arts are republican in Florence. Pictures and statues are shown at all hours, with the greatest ease. Well-informed men, paid by the government, like public functionaries, explain all these chefs-d'œuvre. This lingering respect for talent has ever pervaded Italy; particularly Florence, where the Medicii extorted pardon for their power over human actions, by the free scope they left for human minds. The common people love the arts, and blend this taste with their devotion, which is more regular in Tuscany than in any other Italian state; but they frequently confound mythologic figures with Scripture history. One of the guides used to show a Minerva as Judith, and an Apollo as David; adding, when he explained a bas-relief, which represented the fall of Troy, that "Cassandra was a good Christian." Many days may be passed in the gallery ere half its beauties are known. Corinne went from one to the other, mortified at her own indifference and abstraction. The calm dignity which shines through the deep grief of Niobe, however, recalled her attention. In such a case, the countenance of a living mother would doubtless be more agitated; but the ideal arts preserve beauty even in despair; and what affects us most in works of genius, is not grief's self, but the soul's power o'er grief. Not far from this is a head of the dying Alexander. These two countenances afford rich material for thought. The conqueror looks astonished and indignant at not having achieved a victory even over nature. The anguish of maternal love is depicted on all the traits of Niobe: she presses her daughter to her heart with the most touching eagerness; her fine face bearing the stamp of that fatality which left the ancients no resource, even in religion. Niobe lifts her eyes to heaven, but without hope; for the gods themselves are her enemies.
On her return home, Corinne strove to reflect on what she had seen, and retrace her impressions, as she had formerly done; but her mental distraction was uncontrollable. How far was she now from the power of improvisation! In vain she sought for words, or wrote unmeaning ones, that dismayed her on perusal, as would the ravings of delirium. Incapable of turning her thoughts from her own situation, she then strove to describe it; but no longer could she command those universal sentiments that find echoes in all hearts. Hers were now but long unvaried wailings, like the cry of the night bird; her expressions were too impetuous, too unveiled—they were those of misery, not of talent. To write well, we require to feel truly, but not heart-breakingly. The best melancholy poetry is that inspired by a kind of rapture, which still tells of mental strength and enjoyment. Real grief is a foe to intellectual fertility: it produces a gloomy agitation, that incessantly returns to the same point, like the knight who, pursued by an evil genius, sought a thousand roads for escape, yet always found himself at the spot from whence he started.
The state of Corinne's health completed the confusion of her mind. The following are a few of the reflections she wrote, while making a fruitless effort to become capable of a connected work.