Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (2129 page)

AT Ischia Mr. Collins remained nearly a month. The warm baths — of which, while there, he daily availed himself — so favourably affected his disorder as to enable him, soon after his arrival, to visit much of the wild scenery of that remarkable volcanic island; at first, by the usual invalid mode of conveyance there, a
chaise-à-porteurs,
and afterwards, by riding like other tourists, on donkeys provided by the guides. Compared however with his usual active habit of setting forth on foot, to explore the scenery of a new place in his own manner, the plan of seeing Ischia, which he was now obliged to adopt, was so unattractive as to disincline him, at the beginning of November, to make a longer stay there, and he repaired once more to Naples — the cholera having at length worn itself out in that city — eager to take advantage of his increasing strength, to resume, at the first opportunity, those studies there, which had been interrupted in the summer, almost at their outset.

During the early part of his second sojourn at Naples, he still found himself incapable of greater exertion than walking across his room; but even this tardy progress towards recovery was hailed by his sanguine disposition as the prelude to a speedy restoration, and forced by his unabated energy into ministering to his improvement in Art. Seated at his window, which overlooked the whole Bay of Naples, and a considerable extent of the principal street of the city, he sketched day after day, as long as the light lasted, whatever he saw that pleased him in the landscape or the populace. Idlers in the street, fishermen, country people, and lazzaroni, church processions and perambulating provision-sellers — all the heterogeneous population of a Neapolitan highway — he thus studied indiscriminately, whether in action or repose, his extraordinary rapidity of workmanship enabling him to commit to paper the distinguishing characteristics of the different figures he saw in motion, as they passed by his window. His landscape-sketching was followed with the same industry and dexterity. One morning he began, at breakfast, to transcribe a gloomy effect of storm and rain over the Castello dell’ Uovo, and the mountains and sea beyond it. He had scarcely finished, when the shifting clouds, at noon, produced a totally different aspect of delicate, airy, sunlight over the whole scene. Another piece of paper was handed to him, and another sketch produced of the old castle and its background, under the new light. A few hours afterwards, as the sun set, the clouds again gathered over the sky, and the view so tenderly tinted at noon, now became suffused in a rich golden glow indescribably brilliant and beautiful. Under this third aspect the same scene was again depicted by Mr. Collins in a third sketch; forming the last, and grandest, in one day’s series of illustrations of atmospheric effect. When it is added that these, and all his other studies during this period, were made while his right hand was still so powerless with rheumatism, that he was obliged to lift it to his paper with the left, a better idea of the strength of his practical character, and the determination of his industry as a painter, may be gathered, than any prolixity of the most laboured narration can possibly convey.

This renewal of his well-loved employment as beneficially affected his health as it pleasantly occupied his time. Now, as in the latter scenes of his life, as soon as he was enabled after his illness to return to the Art, his strength seemed encouraged to return to
him.
By the beginning of the year 1838 he found himself sufficiently recovered to leave the house, and prosecute his out-door studies — with greater care, however, for his health — as had been his wont. Some of his occupations and impressions at Naples, during this period of his recovery, are mentioned by him in the following entries in his Journal, which form, unfortunately, the only matter of this description to be met with during his tour. Seldom able, as has already been seen in the previous divisions of his career, to detach from his Art the time necessary to keep a regular Diary, even when at home, it was little likely that he should acquire such a habit while abroad, where his attention was incessantly occupied by new objects and employments, and where his first opportunities of writing down his impressions and opinions, were invariably reserved for his letters to Sir David Wilkie.

DIARY WHILE AT NAPLES.

“1838, January 11th. — Went to the ‘Tribune’ where we saw a monk of the church of S. Maria della Nova, upon his trial for the murder of a woman. By his side was a priest, upon his trial for robbery. They were both young men, and good-looking: the monk, an intellectual-looking man, something like Buonaparte; his expression apparently that of endeavouring to be easy under great agitation of mind. His neighbour was much agitated, and less wicked in his general aspect. Two women, a very little boy, and two men placed near them on raised seats, were detained as accomplices, or rather, in some way implicated. The monk and priest sat on chairs on the floor, under the guardianship of soldiers with bayonets fixed. The monk had murdered the woman for her money — the order to which he belongs being under a vow of poverty! We went afterwards to his convent, heard his brethren chanting away, and were shown their great relic, the body of St. James, in a glass case: the church very large and handsome, a nice garden, and the whole premises upon a great scale. The inhabitants are said to be remarkable for the commission of the most disgusting crimes: this I was told by a Catholic — a man very likely, from his long residence at Naples, to know the truth, and, from his respectable character, entitled to credit.

“Afterwards we went to the church of the ‘S.S. Apostoli,’ erected upon the site of a temple of Mercury, and consecrated to the Apostles by Constantine; rebuilt during the seventeenth century. A large and good fresco, said to be by Luca Giordano; a Guido — our Saviour and St. John, — and a Titian-like picture; with a portrait of Raphael, — are the only pictures to qualify the rubbish in the Sacristy. Then, to the Capella de S. Severo, the mausoleum of the Sangro family. The curious piece of sculpture by Corradini, ‘Modesty seen through a Veil;’ another, called ‘Vice Undeceived,’ representing a man caught in a net, by Queirolo; and a dead Saviour covered with a veil, (the best of the three,) by Guiseppe San Martino, have no great merit; the novelty of representing figures under transparent coverings being their principal attraction, and the thing which travellers recollect. The chapel is very dark, some of the windows being blocked, or rather, propped up, the building having suffered much from earthquakes. Cloudy day; no rain until night.

“12th. — Mr. L — - called this morning. I gave him some account of our visit yesterday to the Tribune. He said he knew the convent of S. Maria della Nova, had dined there sumptuously, and was a little surprised that, as he knew the
avocato
to the fraternity, he had not been told by him that the trial I had seen was coming on, especially as he had promised to advise him of anything interesting of that sort. Of course, this affair was one which it was not thought necessary to make too much stir about. Gloomy day; heavy rain at night.

“13th. — Went to see the lottery drawn (the ‘Reale Lotto’). This demoralizing business takes place in a large hall, nearly the size of Exeter Hall, sanctioned by the presence of many judges, (some in cocked hats), and even by what is termed the Church. The president puts the numbers into a box, which is then placed before a priest, who changes his dress, and, gabbling something like a prayer, takes the vessel with the holy water, and, with a brush, sprinkles the box several times. A little urchin, dressed in white satin and gold, (after the box has been shown to the crowd in the body of the hall, and well turned and shaken, to their great delight, expressed by hideous yells and calls to shake it well,) puts his hand into it, and pulls out a small box containing the number drawn, handing it to the president, who shows it to a ‘lazzarone’ behind, who roars out its number. The first drawn, No. 79, was a popular number, and was received with deafening shouts of joy. The next, No. 2, was not popular, and was received in silence. Three more numbers were drawn, each preceded by the exhibition of the box, rattled as before; and the affair terminated by the people dispersing. On the raised platform, as well as in the hall, soldiers of the king’s body guard, with fixed bayonets, kept order. The boy who draws the numbers crosses himself many times before he begins his work. The ‘lazzaroni’ behind the president are placed there (about twelve of them) as a supposed check upon him. Whether they can all read the numbers he draws, is, I think, doubtful!

“16th. — Went to make a sketch of the Largo del Castello. Gloomy day, with occasional rain; London-looking day. Mrs. Carrington told us an extraordinary story of a murder which took place some time ago in Naples. The visits of a priest to the wife of a person of consideration being discovered by the husband, who expressed himself strongly upon the subject, the priest engaged a barber, who knew the habits and person of the injured husband, to murder him, for the sum of a hundred ducats: which he did!

“22nd. — To Pompei. Remarkably fine day; a most gratifying sight, full of the deepest interest to me. The most striking object I beheld was the Amphitheatre: the scenery around it is sublime, especially Vesuvius, whose original and beautiful shape was sacrificed to fulfil an act of Divine justice, in ending such scenes of cruelty and vice as existed in this profligate city ere it was destroyed.* As an instance of what may be termed the grand, wholly without reference to the moral degredation of the entertainments prepared for the people in ancient times, one can conceive nothing more striking than the vast assemblies that once congregated in this spot, which is worthy of an assemblage of Christians meeting for purposes of worship — the most glorious of all the scenes this state of existence can be susceptible of.

* The shape of Vesuvius is said to have been materially altered for the -worse by the eruption which destroyed Pompei.

23rd. — Went with our companions of yesterday, Sir Henry Russell, Lady Russell, and their son Henry, to Vietri. Thence, in a boat, to — -, and walked to Amalfi. The next day proceeded to the Valley of the Mills, and afterwards to Ravello, returning by Scala. The whole of this little tour was highly impressive: I never saw such fine scenery before: the Valley of the Mills presents a picture at every step; the picturesque buildings, and the lofty crags, and old castles in ruins, are most romantic: the road to Ravello full of beauty and grandeur; Ravello itself unlike anything I ever beheld. Here we saw, in the Duomo, the celebrated marble pulpit, with mosaics as fresh as if they had only been done a few years. From this we crossed a magnificent valley: the view from the terrace, at the back of a little miserable house where the guides stayed for refreshment, was quite beautiful. Scala itself was full of melancholy grandeur; old Saracenic castles, churches, and other buildings, offering endless food for the painter and the poet. Stopped at the cathedral, where a miserable, dirty old woman showed us a nasty mitre, worked all over with pearls and precious stones. Descended, by ten times ten thousand steps, to the cathedral of Amalfi, a rude building, very showy, and in miserable taste, with antique columns of all orders, patching up a temple fit only for those who crowd its neighbourhood — beggars, and dirty, ignorant, vulgar-looking priests. The approach to this building is by about a hundred steps. Arrived at Amalfi, you pass through covered filthy ways, up steps to the cliff; and then, by endless steps again, to the inn — a convent twenty-four years ago, but now happily turned to a useful purpose. Dined in a large room, formerly the refectory; and slept in a room about ten feet square, once the dormitory of a monk. The cloisters, the garden, etc., afford many interesting scenes for the pencil. How much I regret not having it in my power to study these, I dare not say. Here, but for my illness in the autumn of last year, I should probably have spent many weeks.

“25th. — Returned to Naples by Vietri, La Cava, Annuiiciata, etc. The new road from Amalfi to Vietri, along the cliff, about five hours’ ride upon asses, was agreed by all to be most magnificent. Crags and castles, valleys and fishing-towns, goat- herds, the most picturesque figures with loads of sticks, and mules and their drivers occasionally enlivening the scene, produced altogether the most enchanting pictures. Here, too, they show you, built in a sort of grotto made by magnificent over- hanging crags, the remains of the ‘Casa de S. Andrea.’ A good deal of rain in the early part of our ride; the last half, pretty fine.”

An interesting sequel to the painter’s Journal which terminates here, will be found in the following letter, written by him from Naples:

“To SIR DAVID WILKIE, R.A.

“Naples, January 16th, 1838.

“Dear Wilkie, — Your letter of the 12th November gave us all very great pleasure, notwithstanding the certainty now afforded us, that my last long letter to you has never reached Kensington, as well as the unsatisfactory intelligence that one I wrote to Howard, and sent from Sorrento on the 22nd of December, has also been lost. One writes letters in this country with the unpleasant feeling that it is two to one they ever get out of it. ‘Tis almost as bad as painting pictures without the hope of purchasers, — a mortification which, amongst all my other troubles, I have escaped for some time. It seems a twelvemonth since I have heard from you. I long to see your new picture. I fancy something really original might, and I doubt not will, be made of it. Surely portrait-painting may become more like what it was two hundred years ago, and yet be more original than it now is. Do you recollect that magnificent picture by Sebastiano del Piombo, in the Doria palace? It is a portrait of an admiral, — a distinguished person at that time. I can never forget it. Perhaps I may have mentioned it to you before; but I am so much impressed with it, that were I ten years younger I would turn portrait painter, and ride in my one-horse carriage.