Rome, Jan. 12, 1848.—My time in
Lombardy and Switzerland was a series of beautiful
pictures, dramatic episodes, not without some original
life in myself. When I wrote to you from Como,
I had a peaceful season. I floated on the lake
with my graceful Polish countess, hearing her stories
of heroic sorrow; or I walked in the delicious gardens
of the villas, with many another summer friend.
Red banners floated, children sang and shouted, the
lakes of Venus and Diana glittered in the sun.
The pretty girls of Bellaggio, with their coral necklaces,
brought flowers to the “American countess,”
and “hoped she would be as happy as she deserved.”
Whether this cautious wish is fulfilled, I know not,
but certainly I left all the glitter of life behind
at Como.
My days at Milan were not unmarked. I have known
some happy hours, but they all lead to sorrow; and
not only the cups of wine, but of milk, seem drugged
with poison for me. It does not seem to
be my fault, this Destiny; I do not court these things,—they
come. I am a poor magnet, with power to be wounded
by the bodies I attract.
Leaving Milan, I had a brilliant day in Parma.
I had not known Correggio before; he deserves all
his fame. I stood in the parlor of the Abbess,
the person for whom all was done, and Paradise seemed
opened by the nymph, upon her car of light, and the
divine children peeping through the vines. Sweet
soul of love! I should weary of you, too; but
it was glorious that day.
I had another good day, too, crossing the Apennines.
The young crescent moon rose in orange twilight, just
as I reached the highest peak. I was alone on
foot; I heard no sound; I prayed.
At Florence, I was very ill. For three weeks,
my life hung upon a thread. The effect of the
Italian climate on my health is not favorable.
I feel as if I had received a great injury. I
am tired and woe-worn; often, in the bed, I wish I
could weep my life away. However, they brought
me gruel, I took it, and after a while rose up again.
In the time of the vintage, I went alone to Sienna.
This is a real untouched Italian place. This
excursion, and the grapes, restored me at that time.
When I arrived in Rome, I was at first intoxicated
to be here. The weather was beautiful, and many
circumstances combined to place me in a kind of passive,
childlike well-being. That is all over now, and,
with this year, I enter upon a sphere of my destiny
so difficult, that I, at present, see no way out,
except through the gate of death. It is useless
to write of it; you are at a distance and cannot help
me;—whether accident or angel will, I have
no intimation. I have no reason to hope I shall
not reap what I have sown, and do not. Yet how
I shall endure it I cannot guess; it is all a dark,
sad enigma. The beautiful forms of art charm
no more, and a love, in which there is all fondness,
but no help, flatters in vain. I am all alone;
nobody around me sees any of this. My numerous
friendly acquaintances are troubled if they see me
ill, and who so affectionate and kind as Mr. and Mrs.
S.?
