William James
30 October 1869
ALS Houghton
bMS Am 1094 (1938)
Rome Hotel d'Angleterre, Oct. 30th
My dearest Wm—
Some four days since I despatched to you & father
respectively, from Florence, two very doleful epistles, which you will in course of time receive. No sooner had I posted them however than my spirits were revived by the arrival of a most blessed brotherly letter from you of October 8th, which had been detained either by my banker or the porter of the hotel & a little scrap from father of a later date, enclosing your review of Mill & a paper of Howells—as well as a couple of Nations. Verily, it is worthwhile pining for letters for 3 weeks to know the exquisite joy of final relief. I took yours with me to the theatre whither I went to see a comedy of Goldoni most delightfully played & read & re-read it between the acts.—But of this anon.—I went as I proposed down to Pisa & spent two very pleasant days with the Nortons. It is a very fine dull old town—& the great square with its four big treasures
is quite the biggest thing I have seen in Italy—or rather was, until my arrival
at this well-known locality.—I went about a whole morning with Chas. N. &
profited vastly by his excellent knowledge of Italian history & art. I wish
I had a small fraction of it. But my visit wouldn't have been complete unless I
had got a ramble solus, which I did in
perfection. On my return to Florence I determined to start immediately for
Rome. The afternoon after I had posted those two letters I took a walk out of
Florence to an enchanting old Chartreuse—an ancient monastery, perched up on
top of a hill & turreted with little cells like a feudal castle. I attacked
it & carried it by storm—i.e. obtained admission & went over it. On
coming out I swore to myself that while I had life in my body I wouldn't leave
a country where adventures of that complexion are the common incidents of your
daily constitutional: but that I would hurl myself upon Rome & fight it out on this line at the peril of my existence. There I am then in the Eternal city.
It was easy to leave Florence; the cold had become intolerable.
& the rain perpetual. I started last night & at 10
& ½ o'clock & after a bleak & fatiguing journey of 12 hours found
myself here with the morning light. There are several places on the route
I should have been glad to see; but the weather & my own condition made a
direct journey imperative. I rushed to this hotel (a very slow & obstructed
rush it was I confess, thanks to the longeurs &
lenteurs of the Papal dispensation) & after a wash
& a breakfast let myself loose on the city. From midday to dusk I have been
roaming the streets. Que vous en
dirai-je?—At last—for the 1st
time—I live! It beats every thing: it leaves the Rome of your fancy—your education—nowhere. It makes Venice—Florence—Oxford—London—seem like little
cities of paste-board. I went reeling & moaning thro' the streets, in a
fever of enjoyment. In the course of four or five hours I traversed almost the
whole of Rome & got a glimpse of everything—the Forum the Coliseum (
stupendissimo!) the Pantheon-the Capitol-St. Peter's-the
Column of Trajan-the Castle of St. Angelo-all the Piazzas & ruins &
monuments. The effect is something indescribable. For the 1st
time I know what the picturesque is.—In St. Peter's I staid some time. It's
even beyond it's reputation. It was filled with
foreign ecclesiastics—great armies encamped in prayer on the marble plains of
its pavement—an inexhaustible physiognomical study.
To crown my day, on my way home, I met his Holiness in person—driving in prodigious purple state—sitting dim within the shadows of his coach with two uplifted benedictory fingers—like some dusky Hindoo idol in the depths of its shrine. Even if I should leave Rome to night I should feel that I have caught the key-note of its operation on the senses. I have looked along the grassy vista of the Appian way & seen the topmost stonework of the Coliseum sitting shrouded in the light of heaven, like the edge of an Alpine chain. I've trod the Forum & I have scaled the Capitol. I've seen the Tiber hurrying along, as swift & dirty as history! From the high tribune of a great chapel of St. Peter's I have heard in the papal choir a strange old man sing in a shrill unpleasant soprano. I've seen troops of little tonsured neophytes clad in scarlet, marching & counter marching & ducking & flopping, like poor little raw recruits for the heavenly host.—In fine I've seen Rome, & I shall go to bed a wiser man than I last rose—yesterday morning.—It was a great relief to me to have you at last give me some news of your health. Thank the Lord it's no worse. With all my I heart I rejoice that your'e going to try loafing & visiting. I discern the "inexorable logic" of the affair; courage, & you'll work out your redemption. I'm delighted with your good reporting of J. L. F.'s pictures. I've seen them all save the sleeping woman. I have given up expecting him here. If he does come, tant mieux. Your notice of Mill & Bushnell seemed to me (save the opening lines which savored faintly of Eugene Benson) very well & fluently written. Thank father for his ten lines: may they increase & multiply!—Of course I don't know how long I shall be here. I would give my head to be able to remain 3 months: it would be a liberal education. As it is, I shall stay, if possible, simply from week to week. My "condition" remains the same. I am living on some medicine (aloes & sulphuric acid) given me by my Florentine doctor. I shall write again very shortly. Kisses to Alice & Mother. Blessings on yourself. Address me Spada, Flamini & Cie, Banquiers, Rome. Heaven grant I may be here when your letters come. Love to father.
À toi H. J. jr.
This later watercolor (c. 1884-85) follows the design of La Farge’s 1869 easel painting (now destroyed) of the same subject, entitled Sleep in early publications.