We expected letters here, on the receipt of which we instantly turn our steps northward. For in vain I have debated and struggled, wishing to visit Florence or Venice. My son must return to England; and, though I shall not myself cross the Channel immediately, I do not like being separated by so great a distance. Our letters, however, have not come, and we shall employ a day or two in sightseeing.
Sept. 14th.
First we visited the fading inimitable fresco of Leonardo da Vinci. How vain are copies! not in one, nor in any print, did I ever see the slightest approach to the expression in our Saviour’s face, such as it is in the original. Majesty and love—these are the words that would describe it—joined to an absence of all guile that expresses the divine nature more visibly than I ever saw it in any other picture. But if the art of the copyist cannot convey, how much less can words, that which only Leonardo da Vinci could imagine and pourtray? There is another fragment of his in the gallery—an unfinished Virgin and Child—in the same manner quite inimitable: the attitude is peculiar; with a common artist it had degenerated into affectation: with him it is simplicity and grace,—a gentle harmony of look and gesture, which reveals the nature of the being pourtrayed,—the chaste and fond mother, lovely in youth and innocence, thoughtful from mingled awe and love, with a touch of fear, springing from a presentiment of the tragical destiny of the divine infant, whose days of childhood she watched over and made glad. In the gallery is Raphael’s picture of the Marriage of the Virgin, in his first and most chaste style; where beauty of expression and grace of design are more apparent, than when, in later days, his colouring grew more rich, his grouping more artificial. A catalogue of pictures is stupid enough, except that I naturally put down those that attract my attention, and I try in some degree to convey the impression they made, so as to induce you to sympathise in my feelings with regard to them. The galleries are rich in Luinis—ever a pleasing artist. The Ambrosian library we, of course, visited; but they keep things now rigidly under lock and key: for some one, whose folly ought to have met with severe punishment, had endeavoured to purloin, and so mutilated, some of the relics of Petrarch.
Among other lions we went to a silk manufacture, where many looms were at work on rich silks and velvets. We saw here specimens of cloth of glass, which, hereafter, I should think, will be much used for hangings. It is dear now—as dear as silk, because the supply of the material is slight; but spun glass must, in itself, be much cheaper than silk. The fault of this cloth is, that it is apt to chip as it were, and get injured; it will, therefore, never serve any of the purposes of dress, but it is admirably fitted for curtains and hangings. What I saw was all bright yellow and white, resembling gold and silver tissue; of course, the glass would take other colours: it would not fade as soon as silk, and would clean without losing its gloss or the texture being deteriorated.
At the Opera they were giving the Templario. Unfortunately, as is well known, the theatre of La Scala serves, not only as the universal drawing-room for all the society of Milan, but every sort of trading transaction, from horse-dealing to stock-jobbing, is carried on in the pit; so that brief and far between are the snatches of melody one can catch. Besides this, they have the uncomfortable habit of giving the ballet between the two acts of the opera. The only good singer was Salvi—a bad actor, but with a tenor voice of good quality and great sweetness. He had some agreeable airs in the first act: but that over, came a ballet d’action. In this theatre I had seen Othello acted in ballet, with such mastery of pantomime, that words seemed superfluous for the expression of passion or incident; but no such good actors as were celebrated then, exist now. The ballet, founded on the last fortunes of Ali Pasha, was splendidly got up, but full of tumult, noise, and violence, till it ended in a grand blowing-up of Ali, his palace, and treasures. Amidst the din and dust the audience mostly departed, and I went also, thoroughly fatigued; but there was another act of the opera, and on a subsequent night I staid to hear it, though paying for the pleasure by a head-ache. Some of the best airs are in this; and the finale, an air of Salvi, is exquisitely tender and touching, and sung so sweetly by him, that I would rather have heard it than any other part of the opera.
On Sunday I went to the cathedral, and heard mass. There was a sermon—the text, the good Samaritan—the gloss, love your neighbour—an admirable lesson; the preacher, however, had but this one idea: and it was curious, during his sermon of half an hour, to hear the various and abundant words in which he contrived to clothe it. To a passing stranger, the Duomo comprises so much of Milan. It is chiefly the outside, with its multitudinous and snow-white pinnacles, that arrests the attention and charms the eye; a moonlight hour passed in the Piazza del Duomo—now beneath the black shadow of the building, then emerging into the clear white light—and looking up to see the marble spires point glittering to the sky, is a pleasure never to be forgotten.
LETTER XI.
Non-arrival of a Letter.—Departure of my Friends.—Solitude.—The Duomo.—Table d’Hôte.—Austrian Government.
Milan, 23rd September.
A most disagreeable circumstance has occurred. I told you that we expected letters at Milan; one especially, that was to contain the remittance for our homeward journey: it did not—has not come. Perplexed and annoyed, we held council; our friends were all departing; and it seemed best that P—— should go with them, and that I should remain to await the arrival of my letter. I did not like the idea of the solitary journey; but in every point of view this seemed the best course. I gave what money I had to P——, barely sufficient to take him to England: he went, and here I am, feeling much like a hostage for a compact about to be violated. I left England with a merry party of light-hearted youngsters; they are gone, and I alone: this, the end of my pleasant wanderings. Such, you know, is the picture of life: thus every poet sings—thus every moralist preaches. I am more dispirited than I ought to be; but I cannot help it. It rained and blew for several days after the travellers left me,—inclement weather for them; but would I had been with them!
Each day I go to the post-office, and look over the huge packet of English letters; but there are none for me. I did not even ask P—— to write to me; for on any day I may get the expected letter, and at once leave Milan. This excessive uncertainty is the worst part of my troubles. To a rich person, such an accident were scarcely felt; and, indeed, with me, though if protracted it may entail on me a good deal of embarrassment, still it is only annoyance—while I, most unreasonably, feel it as a misfortune. I am miserable. Returning each day from the post-office I cannot rally my spirits; my imagination conjures up a thousand evils; yet, in truth, none as consequent on this accident, sufficient to justify the dismay that invades me. Feeling this, my fancy dreams of other ills—of which this shadow over my mind may be the forerunner; for often, as you know, “in to-day already walks to-morrow;” and yet the evil that comes is not the evil we fear—for, as another poet truly sings—