Dead letters

by Maurice Baring

Letter from Sir Richard C—— to his Cousin

Rome, January 4, 1787.

I have been here a fortnight and have been able more or less to look round. I wrote a long letter to Horace yesterday in which I described at great length the journey from Venice, so I will not repeat to you what I have already written to him.

Rome is a great deal altered since I was here last, ten years ago. It is being spoilt, and such damage as the Goths and Vandals left undone is now being accomplished by the modern architects. I am afraid that by the time the next generation is grown up the beautiful Rome that we have known and loved will have entirely disappeared, and that when our sons and daughters make the pilgrimage which we looked upon as the reward of our studies and the greatest privilege of our youth, they will find a new city, elegant no doubt, and not without grandeur, but devoid of that special charm, that rare and solemn dignity, which clothed the city as we knew it. Of course, certain of the monuments and works of art will always remain, and nothing can prevent Nature from performing her careless miracles. No defacing hand will be allowed to touch the trees that grow in the Coliseum, or to desecrate the verdure and the luxuriant vegetation which is allowed to run riot in the baths of Caracalla. Again, no modern artist will be allowed to lay hands on the grassy Forum, or to intrude upon the Gardens of the Borghese Palace which remind one of the fabled meadows and parterres of Elysium. But it is in the body of the city that the barbarians of the present day are allowed to commit their impious sacrilege, and it is not only a melancholy and bitter task to trace the remains of antiquity in the Rome of to-day, but it is even difficult to recognize in what now exists the city as she was when we were last here together.

The weather has so far not been very favourable. The sirocco is blowing, and daily brings with it a quantity of rain, but it is warm, warmer than it ever is in London. Rome is, I need scarcely tell you, very full of visitors at this moment, and it is especially crowded with our dear countrymen, whom I sedulously try to avoid, for I have not come to Rome, as do so many of our friends, for the purpose of continuing London life, and of hearing and helping to increase the scandal and the tittle-tattle with which we are only too familiar. It is for this reason that I have thus far shunned society, and the only people I have seen are artists and students, of whom there are many. Most of them are Germans, and several of these have received me with great civility and kindness, and afforded me much useful assistance in visiting the museums and conducting my trifling researches.

So far I have not seen much. The new museum is a very fine institution, and possesses many treasures. I have visited the ruins of the palace of the Caesars, the Coliseum, which impressed me more than ever by its size and solemnity, the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter’s, on to the roof of which I climbed in order to enjoy the view.

The theatres are opened once more, and a few nights ago I went to the opera. Anfossi is here, and they gave “Alessandro nel Indie” (which is tedious) followed by a ballet representing the Siege and Fall of Troy, which I greatly enjoyed. I have also seen, since I have been here, Goldoni’s “Locandiera.” As you know, all parts here are played by men; and all the dancers in the ballet are men also. They act with ease and naturalness, and their facial play is especially remarkable.

From the moment I arrived in Rome until yesterday I was oppressed and somewhat saddened by the feeling—whether this was the result of the sirocco or of the shock of seeing so many unexpected changes I do not know—that I was not in any way in touch with Rome. I never seemed to say to myself “This is Rome indeed!” nor to experience that peculiar charm which I remember feeling so acutely when I was here last. It was in vain that I brooded over the ruins, admired the monuments of antiquity, and the masterpieces of the Italian painters; it was in vain that I lingered on the Palatine in the twilight, or roamed in the Baths of Diocletian. I admired with my reason, but I did not feel with my heart as before. Something was wanting. But yesterday the magic returned.

I went for a walk by myself along the Appian Way to the tomb of Metella. It was a gray day; it had been raining nearly all the morning, but by the time I started the rain had ceased, though a layer of high, piled-up clouds remained; the air was mild and almost sultry.

I walked along the Appian Way, and the desolation of the Campagna, with its fragments of broken arches, its ruined aqueducts and the distant hills, which on a day like this seem curiously near and distinct, came over me. In the distance, above Rome itself, the clouds had slightly lifted, and St. Peter’s was lit up by a watery gleam of light. I cannot describe to you the beauty and the melancholy of the scene.