amours de voyage(出航)

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AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

AMOURS DE

VOYAGE.

By Arthur Hugh Clough

AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

Canto I.

Over the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits,

Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth, Come, let us go,--to

a land wherein gods of the old time wandered, Where every breath

even now changes to ether divine. Come, let us go; though withal a voice

whisper, 'The world that we live in, Whithersoever we turn, still is the

same narrow crib; 'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we

travel; Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think;

'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wilfully falser; 'Tis but to

go and have been.'--Come, little bark! let us go.

I. 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, but RUBBISHY 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, of All 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.

AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

II. Claude to Eustace.

Rome disappoints me still; but I shrink and adapt myself to it.

Somehow a tyrannous sense of a superincumbent oppression Still,

wherever I go, accompanies ever, and makes me Feel 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.

III. Georgina Trevellyn to Louisa ----.

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.

IV. Claude to Eustace.

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

AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

earth and In 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

we Walk 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.

V. Claude to Eustace.

Luther, they say, was unwise; like a half-taught German, he could not

See 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 the Martyrs, and Virgins, and Saints,

or at any rate Thomas Aquinas: He must forsooth make a fuss and distend

his huge Wittenberg lungs, and Bring back Theology once yet again in a

flood upon Europe: Lo you, for forty days from the windows of heaven it

fell; the Waters prevail on the earth yet more for a hundred and fifty; Are

they abating at last? the doves that are sent to explore are Wearily 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, they Ravaged, and

went on their way; but these vile, tyrannous Spaniards, These are here

AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

still,--how long, O ye heavens, in the country of Dante? These, that

fanaticized Europe, which now can forget them, release not This, 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!

VI. Claude to Eustace.

Which of three Misses Trevellyn it is that Vernon shall marry Is not a

thing to be known; for our friend is one of those natures Which 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 wholly Pure of the taint of the shop; will at table d'hote and restaurant

Have 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, some Threadbare-genteel

relations, who in their turn are enchanted Grandly among county people to

introduce at assemblies To the unpennied cadets our cousins with excellent

fortunes. Neither man's aristocracy this, nor God's, God knoweth!

VII. Claude to Eustace.

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

AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

fervour Palliate, 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 Maker That 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.

VIII. Claude to Eustace.

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 vast Round 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, how Eager for battle

here Stood Vulcan, here matronal Juno, And with

the bow to his shoulder faithful He who with pure dew laveth of

Castaly His flowing locks, who holdeth of Lycia The

oak forest and the wood that bore him, Delos' and Patara's

own Apollo.*

* Hic avidus stetit Vulcanus, hic

matrona Juno, et Nunquam humeris positurus arcum;

Qui rore puro Castaliae lavit Crines solutos, qui Lyciae tenet

Dumeta natalemque silvam, Delius et Patareus Apollo.

IX. Claude to Eustace.

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 coexistence Is 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

AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

fabric. Yet as for that, I could live, I believe, with children; to have those

Pure and delicate forms encompassing, moving about you, This were

enough, I could think; and truly with glad resignation Could 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; fathers Think 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.

X. Claude to Eustace.

Ye, too, marvellous Twain, that erect on the Monte Cavallo Stand 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 apex Of 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?

XI. Claude to Eustace.

These are the facts. The uncle, the elder brother, the squire (a Little

embarrassed, I fancy), resides in the family place in Cornwall, of course;

'Papa is in business,' Mary informs me; He's a good sensible man,

whatever his trade is. The mother Is--shall I call it fine?--herself she

would tell you refined, and Greatly, 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

AMOURS DE VOYAGE.

Wordsworth; Sometimes adventures on Schiller; and then to religion

diverges; Questions me much about Oxford; and yet, in her loftiest flights

still Grates 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 polish Higher 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?

XII. Claude to Eustace.

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, yet Inly secure in the strength of invisible arms up above me; Still,

wheresoever I swing, wherever to shore, or to shelf, or Floor of cavern

untrodden, shell sprinkled, enchanting, I know I Yet shall one time feel the

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AMOURSDEVOYAGE.1AMOURSDEVOYAGE.ByArthurHughCloughAMOURSDEVOYAGE.2CantoI.Overthegreatwindywaters,andovertheclear-crestedsummits,Untothesunandthesky,anduntotheperfecterearth,Come,letusgo,--toalandwhereingodsoftheoldtimewandered,Whereeverybreathevennowchangestoetherdivine.Come,letusgo;thoughwithalavoic...

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