Claude to Eustace

Dear Eustatio, I write that you may write me an answer,Or at the least to put us again en rapport with each other.Rome disappoints me much,--St Peter's, perhaps, in especial;Only the Arch of Titus and view from the Lateran please me:This, however, perhaps is the weather, which truly is horrid.Greece must be better, surely; and yet I am feeling so spiteful,That I could travel to Athens, to Delphi, and Troy, and Mount Sinai,Though but to see with my eyes that these are vanity also.Rome disappoints me much; I hardly as yet understand it, butRUBBISHY seems the word that most exactly would suit it.All the foolish destructions, and all the sillier savings,All the incongruous things of past incompatible ages,Seem to be treasured up here to make fools of present and future.Would to Heaven the old Goths had made a cleaner sweep of it!Would to Heaven some new ones would come and destroy these churches!However, one can live in Rome as also in London.It is a blessing, no doubt, to be rid, at least for a time, ofAll one's friends and relations,--yourself (forgive me!) included,--All the assujettissement of having been what one has been,What one thinks one is, or thinks that others suppose one;Yet, in despite of all, we turn like fools to the English.Vernon has been my fate; who is here the same that you knew him,--Making the tour, it seems, with friends of the name of Trevellyn.

Rome disappoints me still; but I shrink and adapt myself to it.Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppressionStill, wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes meFeel like a tree (shall I say?) buried under a ruin of brickwork.Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its own Monte Testaceo,Merely a marvellous mass of broken and castaway wine-pots.Ye gods! what do I want with this rubbish of ages departed,Things that Nature abhors, the experiments that she has failed in?What do I find in the Forum? An archway and two or three pillars.Well, but St. Peter's? Alas, Bernini has filled it with sculpture!No one can cavil, I grant, at the size of the great Coliseum.Doubtless the notion of grand and capacious and massive amusement,This the old Romans had; but tell me, is this an idea?Yet of solidity much, but of splendour little is extant:'Brickwork I found thee, and marble I left thee!' their Emperor vaunted;'Marble I thought thee, and brickwork I find thee!' the Tourist may answer.

At last, dearest Louisa, I take up my pen to address you.Here we are, you see, with the seven-and-seventy boxes,Courier, Papa and Mamma, the children, and Mary and Susan:Here we all are at Rome, and delighted of course with St. Peter's,And very pleasantly lodged in the famous Piazza di Spagna.Rome is a wonderful place, but Mary shall tell you about it;Not very gay, however; the English are mostly at Naples;There are the A.'s, we hear, and most of the W. party.George, however, is come; did I tell you about his mustachios?Dear, I must really stop, for the carriage, they tell me, is waiting;Mary will finish; and Susan is writing, they say, to Sophia.Adieu, dearest Louise,--evermore your faithful Georgina.Who can a Mr. Claude be whom George has taken to be with?Very stupid, I think, but George says so VERY clever.

No, the Christian faith, as at any rate I understood it,With its humiliations and exaltations combining,Exaltations sublime, and yet diviner abasements,Aspirations from something most shameful here upon earth andIn our poor selves to something most perfect above in the heavens,--No, the Christian faith, as I, at least, understood it,Is not here, O Rome, in any of these thy churches;Is not here, but in Freiburg, or Rheims, or Westminster Abbey.What in thy Dome I find, in all thy recenter efforts,Is a something, I think, more RATIONAL far, more earthly,Actual, less ideal, devout not in scorn and refusal,But in a positive, calm, Stoic-Epicurean acceptance.This I begin to detect in St. Peter's and some of the churches,Mostly in all that I see of the sixteenth-century masters;Overlaid of course with infinite gauds and gewgaws,Innocent, playful follies, the toys and trinkets of childhood,Forced on maturer years, as the serious one thing needful,By the barbarian will of the rigid and ignorant Spaniard.Curious work, meantime, re-entering society: how weWalk a livelong day, great Heaven, and watch our shadows!What our shadows seem, forsooth, we will ourselves be.Do I look like that? you think me that: then I AM that.

Luther, they say, was unwise; like a half-taught German, he could notSee that old follies were passing most tranquilly out of remembrance;Leo the Tenth was employing all efforts to clear out abuses;Jupiter, Juno, and Venus, Fine Arts, and Fine Letters, the Poets,Scholars, and Sculptors, and Painters, were quietly clearing away theMartyrs, and Virgins, and Saints, or at any rate Thomas Aquinas:He must forsooth make a fuss and distend his huge Wittenberg lungs, andBring back Theology once yet again in a flood upon Europe:Lo you, for forty days from the windows of heaven it fell; theWaters prevail on the earth yet more for a hundred and fifty;Are they abating at last? the doves that are sent to explore areWearily fain to return, at the best with a leaflet of promise,--Fain to return, as they went, to the wandering wave-tost vessel,--Fain to re-enter the roof which covers the clean and the unclean,--Luther, they say, was unwise; he didn't see how things were going;Luther was foolish,--but, O great God! what call you Ignatius?O my tolerant soul, be still! but you talk of barbarians,Alaric, Attila, Genseric;--why, they came, they killed, theyRavaged, and went on their way; but these vile, tyrannous Spaniards,These are here still,--how long, O ye heavens, in the country of Dante?These, that fanaticized Europe, which now can forget them, release notThis, their choicest of prey, this Italy; here you see them,--Here, with emasculate pupils and gimcrack churches of Gesu,Pseudo-learning and lies, confessional-boxes and postures,--Here, with metallic beliefs and regimental devotions,--Here, overcrusting with slime, perverting, defacing, debasing,Michael Angelo's Dome, that had hung the Pantheon in heaven,Raphael's Joys and Graces, and thy clear stars, Galileo!

Which of three Misses Trevellyn it is that Vernon shall marryIs not a thing to be known; for our friend is one of those naturesWhich have their perfect delight in the general tender-domestic,So that he trifles with Mary's shawl, ties Susan's bonnet,Dances with all, but at home is most, they say, with Georgina,Who is, however, TOO silly in my apprehension for Vernon.I, as before when I wrote, continue to see them a little;Not that I like them much or care a bajocco for Vernon,But I am slow at Italian, have not many English acquaintance,And I am asked, in short, and am not good at excuses.Middle-class people these, bankers very likely, not whollyPure of the taint of the shop; will at table d'hote and restaurantHave their shilling's worth, their penny's pennyworth even:Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God knoweth!Yet they are fairly descended, they give you to know, well connected;Doubtless somewhere in some neighbourhood have, and are careful to keep, someThreadbare-genteel relations, who in their turn are enchantedGrandly among county people to introduce at assembliesTo the unpennied cadets our cousins with excellent fortunes.Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God knoweth!

Ah, what a shame, indeed, to abuse these most worthy people!Ah, what a sin to have sneered at their innocent rustic pretensions!Is it not laudable really, this reverent worship of station?Is it not fitting that wealth should tender this homage to culture?Is it not touching to witness these efforts, if little availing,Painfully made, to perform the old ritual service of manners?Shall not devotion atone for the absence of knowledge? and fervourPalliate, cover, the fault of a superstitious observance?Dear, dear, what do I say? but, alas! just now, like Iago,I can be nothing at all, if it is not critical wholly;So in fantastic height, in coxcomb exaltation,Here in the garden I walk, can freely concede to the MakerThat the works of His hand are all very good: His creatures,Beast of the field and fowl, He brings them before me; I name them;That which I name them, they are,--the bird, the beast, and the cattle.But for Adam,--alas, poor critical coxcomb Adam!But for Adam there is not found an help-meet for him.

No, great Dome of Agrippa, thou art not Christian! canst not,Strip and replaster and daub and do what they will with thee, be so!Here underneath the great porch of colossal Corinthian columns,Here as I walk, do I dream of the Christian belfries above them?Or, on a bench as I sit and abide for long hours, till thy whole vastRound grows dim as in dreams to my eyes, I repeople thy niches,Not with the Martyrs, and Saints, and Confessors, and Virgins, and children,But with the mightier forms of an older, austerer worship;And I recite to myself, howEager for battle hereStood Vulcan, here matronal Juno,And with the bow to his shoulder faithfulHe who with pure dew laveth of CastalyHis flowing locks, who holdeth of LyciaThe oak forest and the wood that bore him,Delos' and Patara's own Apollo.

* Hic avidus stetitVulcanus, hic matrona Juno, etNunquam humeris positurus arcum;Qui rore puro Castaliae lavitCrines solutos, qui Lyciae tenetDumeta natalemque silvam,Delius et Patareus Apollo.

Yet it is pleasant, I own it, to be in their company; pleasant,Whatever else it may be, to abide in the feminine presence.Pleasant, but wrong, will you say? But this happy, serene coexistenceIs to some poor soft souls, I fear, a necessity simple,Meat and drink and life, and music, filling with sweetness,Thrilling with melody sweet, with harmonies strange overwhelming,All the long-silent strings of an awkward, meaningless fabric.Yet as for that, I could live, I believe, with children; to have thosePure and delicate forms encompassing, moving about you,This were enough, I could think; and truly with glad resignationCould from the dream of Romance, from the fever of flushed adolescence,Look to escape and subside into peaceful avuncular functions.Nephews and nieces! alas, for as yet I have none! and, moreover,Mothers are jealous, I fear me, too often, too rightfully; fathersThink they have title exclusive to spoiling their own little darlings;And by the law of the land, in despite of Malthusian doctrine,No sort of proper provision is made for that most patriotic,Most meritorious subject, the childless and bachelor uncle.

Ye, too, marvellous Twain, that erect on the Monte CavalloStand by your rearing steeds in the grace of your motionless movement,Stand with your upstretched arms and tranquil regardant faces,Stand as instinct with life in the might of immutable manhood,--O ye mighty and strange, ye ancient divine ones of Hellas.Are ye Christian too? to convert and redeem and renew you,Will the brief form have sufficed, that a Pope has set up on the apexOf the Egyptian stone that o'ertops you, the Christian symbol?And ye, silent, supreme in serene and victorious marble,Ye that encircle the walls of the stately Vatican chambers,Juno and Ceres, Minerva, Apollo, the Muses and Bacchus,Ye unto whom far and near come posting the Christian pilgrims,Ye that are ranged in the halls of the mystic Christian Pontiff,Are ye also baptized? are ye of the kingdom of Heaven?Utter, O some one, the word that shall reconcile Ancient and Modern!Am I to turn me from this unto thee, great Chapel of Sixtus?

These are the facts. The uncle, the elder brother, the squire (aLittle embarrassed, I fancy), resides in the family place inCornwall, of course; 'Papa is in business,' Mary informs me;He's a good sensible man, whatever his trade is. The motherIs--shall I call it fine?--herself she would tell you refined, andGreatly, I fear me, looks down on my bookish and maladroit manners;Somewhat affecteth the blue; would talk to me often of poets;Quotes, which I hate, Childe Harold; but also appreciates Wordsworth;Sometimes adventures on Schiller; and then to religion diverges;Questions me much about Oxford; and yet, in her loftiest flights stillGrates the fastidious ear with the slightly mercantile accent.

Is it contemptible, Eustace--I'm perfectly ready to think so,--Is it,--the horrible pleasure of pleasing inferior people?I am ashamed of my own self; and yet true it is, if disgraceful,That for the first time in life I am living and moving with freedom.I, who never could talk to the people I meet with my uncle,--I, who have always failed,--I, trust me, can suit the Trevellyns;I, believe me,--great conquest, am liked by the country bankers.And I am glad to be liked, and like in return very kindly.So it proceeds; laissez faire, laissez aller,--such is the watchword.Well, I know there are thousands as pretty and hundreds as pleasant,Girls by the dozen as good, and girls in abundance with polishHigher and manners more perfect than Susan or Mary Trevellyn.Well, I know, after all, it is only juxtaposition,--Juxtaposition, in short; and what is juxtaposition?

But I am in for it now,--laissez faire, of a truth, laissez aller.Yes, I am going,--I feel it, I feel and cannot recall it,--Fusing with this thing and that, entering into all sorts of relations,Tying I know not what ties, which, whatever they are, I know one thing,Will, and must, woe is me, be one day painfully broken,--Broken with painful remorses, with shrinkings of soul, and relentings,Foolish delays, more foolish evasions, most foolish renewals.But I have made the step, have quitted the ship of Ulysses;Quitted the sea and the shore, passed into the magical island;Yet on my lips is the moly, medicinal, offered of Hermes.I have come into the precinct, the labyrinth closes around me,Path into path rounding slyly; I pace slowly on, and the fancy,Struggling awhile to sustain the long sequences, weary, bewildered,Fain must collapse in despair; I yield, I am lost, and know nothing;Yet in my bosom unbroken remaineth the clue; I shall use it.Lo, with the rope on my loins I descend through the fissure; I sink, yetInly secure in the strength of invisible arms up above me;Still, wheresoever I swing, wherever to shore, or to shelf, orFloor of cavern untrodden, shell sprinkled, enchanting, I know IYet shall one time feel the strong cord tighten about me,--Feel it, relentless, upbear me from spots I would rest in; and though theRope sway wildly, I faint, crags wound me, from crag unto crag re-Bounding, or, wide in the void, I die ten deaths, ere the end IYet shall plant firm foot on the broad lofty spaces I quit, shallFeel underneath me again the great massy strengths of abstraction,Look yet abroad from the height o'er the sea whose salt wave I have tasted.

Dearest Louisa,--Inquire, if you please, about Mr. Claude ----.He has been once at R., and remembers meeting the H.'s.Harriet L., perhaps, may be able to tell you about him.It is an awkward youth, but still with very good manners;Not without prospects, we hear; and, George says, highly connected.Georgy declares it absurd, but Mamma is alarmed, and insists he hasTaken up strange opinions, and may be turning a Papist.Certainly once he spoke of a daily service he went to.'Where?' we asked, and he laughed and answered, 'At the Pantheon.'This was a temple, you know, and now is a Catholic church; andThough it is said that Mazzini has sold it for Protestant service,Yet I suppose this change can hardly as yet be effected.Adieu again,--evermore, my dearest, your loving Georgina.