# Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842, and 1843/Part 1/Letter 8

LETTER VIII.
Cadenabbia, August 15.
Time speeds on; yet every hour being occupied, it appears to move slowly. How often do a few weeks—such as we have spent here—seem a mere shred of life, hardly counted in the passage of a year! But these weeks “drag a slow length along,” day succeeding day, each gifted with the calmest yet most living enjoyment. Calm; for no event disturbs us: instinct with glowing life, inspired by the beauty of the scenery and the delicious influence of the climate.
We hear from the boatmen on the lake snatches of the “Lucia”—the Bell’ Alma innamorata, especially. The Opera-house at Como is open; and, now and then, to vary their day, my companions have visited it, going by the steamer at four in the afternoon, and returning the next morning. I have been tempted thither once. The steamer, the Lario (a better is promised for next year), is a very ​primitive and slow boat. I now made a voyage I had made years before, when putting off from Como in a skiff we had visited Tremezzo. How vividly I remembered and recognised each spot. I longed inexpressibly to land at the Pliniana, which remained in my recollection as a place adorned by magical beauty. The abrupt precipices, the gay-looking villas, the richly-wooded banks, the spire-like cypresses—a thousand times scarcely less vividly had they recurred to my memory, than now they appeared again before my eyes. Sometimes these thoughts and these revisitings were full of inexpressible sadness; a yearning after the past—a contempt for all that has occurred since, that throws dark and chilling shadows over the soul. Just now, my mind was differently attuned; the young and gay were around; and in them I lived and enjoyed.
Madame Pasta has a villa on the lake, some miles distant from Como. She has an excessive fear of the water, and never goes to Como by the steamer. Unluckily there is no road on her side of the lake; and she has a house on the opposite shore, in which to remain, if the weather is stormy, to wait for the smoothing of the waters. Methinks the elements are rude indeed not to obey her voice—never did any so move, so penetrate the human heart. In “Giulietta,” in “Medea,” and, above all, in the ​melting and pathetic tenderness of the opening air of the “Nina Pazza per Amore” of the divine Paesiello, she has in truth taken from the heart its last touch of hardness, and melted it into sweetest tears. Pasta and Paganini alone have had this power over me, but yet different in its kind. By Pasta, the tenderest sympathy was awakened, joined to that soft return to one’s own past afflictions, which subdued the soul and opened the fountain of tears. Paganini excited and agitated violently—it was rather nervous hysterics than gentle sorrowing—it was irresistible—as a friend said, it realised the fables of Orpheus—it had the power of an enchantment. We heard him in a garish theatre, seeing him on a stage, playing simply to attract admiration and gain money. The violent emotions he excited, rose and faded in the bosom without any visible sign. But could we have listened in the wooded solitudes of Greece or Italy, and known that he himself was animated by some noble purpose, surely he might have inspired passion, animated to glorious action, and caused obstacles seemingly irresistible to give way—no fabled power of music ever transcended his.
It is bathos to return to the opera of Como—but it was very creditable. The house was clean and pretty. Teresa Brambilla sang the part of “Lucia” very tolerably, and it was an agreeable change. In ​the hotel at Como were staying some Italians, whose singing, however, far transcended that of the theatre. Prince B——, in the days of his exile and poverty, often said jestingly, that were his fortunes at their last ebb, the stage would be a sure resource. Perhaps no finer voice than his has been heard in a theatre for many years.
August 30th.
It is not always calm upon the lake. Sometimes a mighty storm comes down from the Alps, bringing with it driving rain, which resembles the mist of a cataract, and wind that lashes the water into waves and foam,—and then, in half an hour, all is sunny, sparkling—and calm is spread again upon the waters. Several times we had music on the lake: once we got the musicians over from Bellaggio—they were artisans of the place, who had formed themselves into a musical society—to the number of twenty-one, and they played a variety of airs of modern composers. Often we have visited our favourite Villa Serbelloni, and each visit discovered some new beauty. Once, in P.’s little boat, we doubled the promontory, and rowed beneath the crags we had looked down upon from the terraced walks above. Black, abrupt, and broken into islet, pinnacle, and cliff, but all crowned by greenest vegetation, they rose high around us. Sometimes we visited the high terraced ​gardens of Villa Giulia, that overlooked the same branch of the lake.
Nor, nearer home, must I forget the Villa Sommariva. The grounds are not extensive, and, of course, broken into terraces, from the nature of the site; with overarching trees, forming shady alcoves and covered walks. It is a cool and pleasant retreat at noon: the house is a very good one, large and cheerful. It possesses a renowned work of Canova, the Cupid and Psyche. The expression of their faces is tender and sweet; but—I like not to confess it—I am not an admirer of Canova’s women. He is said to have had singular opportunities of studying the female form; but place his Venus, or any other of his female statues, beside those of Grecian sculpture, and his defects must strike the most untaught eye. There was a little antique of a sleeping nymph in the halls of the Villa Sommariva, which formed a contrast with the modern Psyche. It looked as the finger could impress the marble, as the imitated flesh had yielded to the posture of the figure. Canova’s seemed as if it moved only at the joints, and as if no other portion of the frame was influenced by attitude.
When alone in an evening, I often walk towards Menaggio. I have selected a haunt among rocks close to the water’s edge, shaded by an olive-wood. ​I always feel renewed and extreme delight as I watch the shadows of evening climb the huge mountains, till the granite peaks alone shine forth glad and bright, and a holy stillness gathers over the landscape. With what serious yet quick joy do such sights fill me; and dearer still is the aspiring thought that seeks the Creator in his works, as the soul yearns to throw off the chains of flesh that hold it in, and to dissolve and become a part of that which surrounds it.
This evening my friends are gone to Como, and I sat long on my favourite seat, listening to the ripplet of the calm lake splashing at my feet; to the murmur of running streams, and to the hollow roar of the mysterious torrent—the Fiume Latte—which is borne, softened by distance, from the opposite shore; viewing the magnificent mountain scene, varied by the lights and shadows caused by the setting sun. My heart was elevated, purified, subdued. I prayed for peace to all; and still the supreme Beauty brooded over me, and promised peace; at least there where change is not, and love and enjoyment unite and are one. From such rapt moods the soul returns to earth, bearing with it the calm of Paradise:
Quale è colui, che sognando vede,
E dopo 'l sogno la passione impressa
Rimane, e l'altro alla mente non riede;
Cotal son io, che quasi tutta cessa
Mia visione, ed ancor mi distilla
Nel cor il dolce, che nacque da essa.
Cosi la neve al sol si dissigilla;
Cosi al vento nelle foglie lievi
Si perdea la sentenzia di Sibilla.
It has seemed to me—and on such an evening, I have felt it,—that this world, endowed as it is outwardly with endless shapes and influences of beauty and enjoyment, is peopled also in its spiritual life by myriads of loving spirits; from whom, unawares, we catch impressions, which mould our thoughts to good, and thus they guide beneficially the course of events, and minister to the destiny of man. Whether the beloved dead make a portion of this holy company, I dare not guess; but that such exists, I feel. They keep far off while we are worldly, evil, selfish; but draw near, imparting the reward of heaven-born joy, when we are animated by noble thoughts, and capable of disinterested actions. Surely such gather round me this night, and make a part of that atmosphere of peace and love which it is paradise to breathe.
I had thought such ecstacy as that in which I now was lapped dead to me for ever; but the sun of Italy has thawed the frozen stream—the cup of life again sparkles to the brim. Will it be removed as I turn northward? I fear it will. I grieve to think that we shall very soon leave Cadenabbia—the first sad step towards quitting Italy.