
All images © by Roberto Piperno, owner of the domain. Write to romapip@quipo.it.
Notes:
Page added in January 2022.
All images © by Roberto Piperno, owner of the domain. Write to romapip@quipo.it.
Notes:
Page added in January 2022.
The Diary of an Ennuyée was Jameson's first book and was published anonymously in 1826 and originally named A Lady's Diary. The book was published under the pretence that the diary was non-fiction and had been discovered by the editor who then decided to publish the memoirs of the young lady, who had died of a broken heart while travelling on the Continent. The writer, who was born in 1794, suppresses her actual status as a young governess accompanying a pupil and instead becomes a wealthy parentless spinster touring Italy.
The diary is to a great extent a guidebook to Italy. It covers a period from June (1821) to July of the following year, and the journey follows a traditional route (Milan, Venice, Florence, Rome and Naples). The text was inspired by Mme de Stael's Corinne, and can be seen as one of many English imitations. Corinne had been a very influential book since its publication in 1807. Anna Jameson inspired her young female readers to desire independence and want to travel and explore the beauty of Italy. Jameson referred to The Diary of an Ennuyée in two of her later publications. When The Loves of the Poets was published in 1829, Jameson was acknowledged on the front page as the author of The Diary of an Ennuyée. After the publication of these two books, Jameson's career began to flourish and she wrote and travelled extensively until her death in 1860. Although some descriptions of Roman events are partly fictional, overall her account of them testifies to what English travellers of her time expected to see in Rome.
Coliseum by moonlightDecember 19, 1821. Last night we took advantage of a brilliant full moon to visit the Coliseum by moonlight; and if I came away disappointed of the pleasure I had expected, the fault was not in me nor in the scene around me. In its sublime and heart-stirring beauty, it more than equalled, it surpassed all I had anticipated, but (there must always be a but! always in the realities of this world something to disgust;) it happened that one or two gentlemen joined our party - young men too, and classical scholars, who perhaps thought it fine to affect a well-bred nonchalance, a fashionable disdain for all romance and enthusiasm, and amused themselves with quizzing our guide, insulting the gloom, the grandeur, and the silence around them, with loud impertinent laughter at their own poor jokes; and I was obliged to listen, sad and disgusted, to their empty and tasteless and misplaced flippancy. The young barefooted friar, with his dark lanthorn, and his black eyes flashing from under his cowl, who acted as our cicerone, was in picturesque unison with the scene; but more than one murder having lately been committed among the labyrinthine recesses of the ruin, the government has given orders that every person entering after dusk should be attended by a guard of two soldiers. |
Spanish StepsDecember 13. The day arose as beautiful, as brilliant, as cloudless, as I could have desired for the first day in Rome. About seven o'clock, and before any one was ready for breakfast, I walked out of Albergo di Parigi in Via Santa Croce and directing my steps by mere chance to the left, found myself in the Piazza di Spagna and opposite to a gigantic flight of marble stairs leading to the top of a hill. I was at the summit in a moment; and breathless and agitated by a thousand feelings, I leaned against the obelisk, and looked over the whole city. I knew not where I was: nor among the crowded mass of buildings, the innumerable domes and towers, and vanes and pinnacles, brightened by the ascending sun, could I for a while distinguish a single known object; for my eyes and my heart were both too full: but in a few minutes my powers of perception returned; and in the huge round bulk of the castle of St. Angelo, and the immense facade and soaring cupola of St. Peter's, I knew I could not be mistaken. I gazed and gazed as if I would have drunk it all in at my eyes: and then descending the superb flight of steps rather more leisurely than I had ascended, I was in a moment at the door of our hotel. |
Vatican MuseumFor the Museum of the Vatican, I confess I was totally unprepared; and the first and second time I walked through the galleries, I was so amazed so intoxicated, that I could not fix my attention upon any individual object. (..) Gallery beyond gallery, hall within hall, temple within temple, new splendours opening at every step! of all the creations of luxurious art, the Museum of the Vatican may alone defy any description to do it justice, or any fancy to conceive the unimaginable variety of its treasures. (..) I have been told and can well believe, that the whole giro of the galleries exceeds two miles. |
View from Casino del BelvedereThe weather is cold here during the prevalence of the tramontana: but I enjoy the brilliant skies and the delicious purity of the air, which leaves the eye free to wander over a vast extent of space. Looking from the gallery of the Belvedere at sunset this evening, I clearly saw Tivoli, Albano, and Frascati, although all Rome and part of the Campagna lay between me and those towns. The outlines of every building, ruin, hill and wood were so distinctly marked and stood out so brightly to the eye! |
The Dying GladiatorThe dying Gladiator is the chief boast of the Capitol. The antiquarian Nibby insists that this statue represents a Gaul, that the sculpture is Grecian, that it formed part of a group on a pediment: that the cord round the neck is a twisted chain, an ornament peculiar to the Gauls; and that the form of the shield, the bugles, the style of the hair, and the mustachios, all prove it to be a Gaul. (..) I owned myself unwilling to consider the Gladiator, a Gaul, but the reasoning struck me, and I am too unlearned to weigh the arguments he used, much less confute them. |
Portrait of Beatrice CenciOur visit to the Barberini Palace to-day was solely to view the famous portrait of Beatrice Cenci. Her appalling story is still as fresh in remembrance here, and her name and fate as familiar in the mouths of every class, as if instead of two centuries, she had lived two days ago. In spite of the innumerable copies and prints I have seen, I was more struck than I can express by the dying beauty of the Cenci. In the face the expression of heart-sinking anguish and terror is just not too strong, leaving the loveliness of the countenance unimpaired; and there is a woe-begone negligence in the streaming hair and loose drapery which adds to its deep pathos. It is consistent too with the circumstances under which the picture is traditionally said to have been painted that is, in the interval, between her torture and her execution. |
The Manger at S. Maria MaggioreOn Christmas Eve we went in a large party to visit some of the principal churches, and witness the celebration of the Nativity; one of the most splendid ceremonies of the Romish Church. (..) We were told it would be much finer at the Santa Maria Maggiore; for there the real manger which had received our Saviour at his birth was deposited: and this inestimable relic was to be displayed to the eyes of the devout; and with a waxen figure laid within (called here Il Bambino), was to be carried in procession round the church, "with pomp, with music, and with triumphing." The real Cradle was a temptation not to be withstood. (..) For processions and shows I care very little, but not for any thing, not for all I suffered at the moment, would I have missed the scene which the interior of the church exhibited; for it is impossible that any description could have given me the faintest idea of it. This most noble edifice, with its perfect proportions, its elegant Ionic columns, and its majestic simplicity, appeared transformed for the time being, into the temple of some Pagan divinity. Lights and flowers, incense and music were all around: and the spacious aisles were crowded with the lowest classes of the people, the inhabitants of the neighbouring hills, and the peasantry of the Campagna, who with their wild ruffian-like figures and picturesque costumes, were lounging about, or seated at the bases of pillars, or praying before the altars. How I wished to paint some of the groups I saw! but only Rembrandt could have done them justice. |
Pyramid of Caius CestiusWe drove to the Pyramid of Caius Cestus. As we know nothing of this Caius Cestus, but that he lived, died, and was buried, it is not possible to attach any fanciful or classical interest to his tomb, but it is an object of so much beauty in itself, and from its situation so striking and picturesque, that it needs no additional interest. It is close to the ancient walls of Rome, which stretch on either side as far as the eye can reach in huge and broken masses of brick-work, fragments of battlements and buttresses, overgrown in many parts with shrubs, and even trees. |
Burying ground of strangers and hereticsAround the base of the Pyramid lies the burying ground of strangers and heretics. Many of the monuments are elegant, and their frail materials and diminutive forms are in affecting contrast with the lofty and solid pile which towers above them. The tombs lie around in a small space "amicably close," like brothers in exile, and as I gazed, I felt a kindred feeling with all; for I too am a wanderer, a stranger, and a heretic; and it is probable that my place of rest may be among them. Be it so! for methinks this earth could not afford a more lovely, a more tranquil, or more sacred spot. I remarked one tomb, which is an exact model, and in the same material with the Sarcophagus of Cornelius Scipio, in the Vatican. One small slab of white marble bore the name of a young girl, an only child, who died at sixteen and "left her parents disconsolate:" another elegant and simple monument bore the name of a young painter of genius and promise, and was erected "by his companions and fellow students as a testimony of their affectionate admiration and regret." This part of old Rome is beautiful beyond description, and has a wild, desolate, and poetical grandeur, which affects the imagination like a dream. The very air disposes one to reverie. I am not surprised that Poussin, Claude, and Salvator Rosa made this part of Rome a favourite haunt, and studied here their finest effects of colour, and their grandest combinations of landscape. I saw a young artist seated on a pile of ruins with his sketch-book open on his knee, and his pencil in his hand during the whole time we were there he never changed his attitude, nor put his pencil to the paper, but remained leaning on his elbow, like one lost in extasy. |
ConstantineConstantine was the first Christian emperor, a glory which has served to cover a multitude of sins: it is indeed impossible to forget that he was the chosen instrument of a great and blessed revolution, but in other respects it is as impossible to look back to the period of Constantine without horror - an era when bloodshed and barbarism, and the general depravity of morals and taste seemed to have reached their climax. |
A SerenadeThe sounds of a guitar attracted me to the window, which looks into a narrow back street, and is exactly opposite a small white house belonging to a vetturino, who has a very pretty daughter. For her this serenade was evidently intended; for the moment the music began, she placed a light in the window as a signal that she listened propitiously, and then retired. The group below, consisted of two men, the lover and a musician he had brought with him: the former stood looking up at the window with his hat off, and the musician after singing two very beautiful airs, concluded with the delicious and popular Arietta "Buona notte amato bene!" to which the lover whistled a second, in such perfect tune, and with such exquisite taste, that I was enchanted. Rome is famous for serenades and serenaders. (..) Neither at Venice, at Padua, nor at Florence did I hear any thing that pleased and touched me so much as the serenade to which I have just been listening. |
Pius VIIJanuary 1822. He walked without support, but with great difficulty, and appeared bent by infirmity and age: his countenance has a melancholy but most benevolent expression, and his dark eyes retain uncommon lustre and penetration. During the twenty-one years he has worn the tiara, he has suffered many vicissitudes and humiliations with dignity and fortitude. He is not considered a man of very powerful intellect or very shining talents; but he has been happy in his choice of ministers, and his government has been distinguished by a spirit of liberality, and above all by a partiality to the English, which calls for our respect and gratitude. |
Procession at the ColiseumI drove to the Coliseum, where I found a long procession of penitents, their figures and faces totally concealed by their masks and peculiar dress, chaunting the Via Crucis. |
Princess Pauline BorgheseMarch 1822. In the gardens we frequently meet the Princess Pauline; sometimes alone but oftener surrounded by a cortege of beaux. She is no longer the "Venere Vincitrice" of Canova; but her face though faded, is pretty and intelligent; and she still preserves the "andar celeste," and all the distinguished elegance of her petite and graceful figure. Of the stories told of her, I suppose one half may be true and that half is quite enough. She is rather more famous for her gallantries, than for her bon-gout in the choice of her favourites; but it is justice to Pauline to add that her native benevolence of heart seems to have survived all her frailties; and every one who speaks of her here, even those who must condemn her, mention her in a tone of kindness, and even of respect. She is still in deep mourning for the Emperor. |
Pamfili GardensMarch 1822. The gardens are laid out in the artificial style of Italian gardening, a style which in England would horrify me. (..) Through what inconsistency or perversity of taste is it then, that I am enchanted with the fantastic elegance, and the picturesque gaiety of the Pamfili gardens; where sportive art revels, and runs wild amid the luxuriance of nature? Or is it, as I would rather believe, because these long arcades of verdure, these close walls of laurel, pervious to the air, but impervious to the sunshine, these broad umbrageous avenues and marble terraces, these paved grottoes and ever trickling fountains, these gods and nymphs, and urns and sarcophagi, meeting us at every turn with some classical or poetical association, harmonise with the climate and the country, and the minds of the people; and are comfortable and consistent as a well carpeted drawing-room and a warm chimney-corner would be in England? |
View from Villa LantiApril 1822. We spent half an hour in the gardens of the Villa Lanti, on the Monte Gianicolo. The view of Rome from these gardens is superb: though the sky was clouded, the atmosphere was perfectly pure and clear: the eye took in the whole extent of ancient and modern Rome; beyond it the Campagna, the Alban Hills, and the Appenines, which appeared of a deep purple, with pale clouds floating over their summits. The city lay at our feet, silent, and clothed with the day-light as with a garment, no smoke, no vapour, no sound, no motion, no sign of life: it looked like a city whose inhabitants had been suddenly petrified, or smitten by a destroying angel; and such was the effect of its strange and solemn beauty, that before I was aware, I felt my eyes fill with tears as I looked upon it. |
Read What Dante Saw.
Read What Goethe Saw.
Read What Lord Byron Saw.
Read What Charles Dickens Saw.
Read What Henry James Saw.
Read What Mark Twain Saw.
Read What William Dean Howells Saw.
Read Dan Brown's Spaghetti Bolognaise (excerpts from Angels and Demons)