well (as anybody may, who chooses to think about the matter) that
few very great masters can possibly have painted, in the compass of
their lives, one-half of the pictures that bear their names, and
that are recognised by many aspirants to a reputation for taste, as
undoubted originals. But this, by the way. Of the Last Supper, I
would simply observe, that in its beautiful composition and
arrangement, there it is, at Milan, a wonderful picture; and that,
in its original colouring, or in its original expression of any
single face or feature, there it is not. Apart from the damage it
has sustained from damp, decay, or neglect, it has been (as Barry
shows) so retouched upon, and repainted, and that so clumsily, that
many of the heads are, now, positive deformities, with patches of
paint and plaster sticking upon them like wens, and utterly
distorting the expression. Where the original artist set that
impress of his genius on a face, which, almost in a line or touch,
separated him from meaner painters and made him what he was,
succeeding bunglers, filling up, or painting across seams and
cracks, have been quite unable to imitate his hand; and putting in
some scowls, or frowns, or wrinkles, of their own, have blotched
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and spoiled the work. This is so well established as an historical
fact, that I should not repeat it, at the risk of being tedious,
but for having observed an English gentleman before the picture,
who was at great pains to fall into what I may describe as mild
convulsions, at certain minute details of expression which are not
left in it. Whereas, it would be comfortable and rational for
travellers and critics to arrive at a general understanding that it
cannot fail to have been a work of extraordinary merit, once:
when, with so few of its original beauties remaining, the grandeur
of the general design is yet sufficient to sustain it, as a piece
replete with interest and dignity.
We achieved the other sights of Milan, in due course, and a fine
city it is, though not so unmistakably Italian as to possess the
characteristic qualities of many towns far less important in
themselves. The Corso, where the Milanese gentry ride up and down
in carriages, and rather than not do which, they would half starve
themselves at home, is a most noble public promenade, shaded by
long avenues of trees. In the splendid theatre of La Scala, there
was a ballet of action performed after the opera, under the title
of Prometheus: in the beginning of which, some hundred or two of
men and women represented our mortal race before the refinements of
the arts and sciences, and loves and graces, came on earth to
soften them. I never saw anything more effective. Generally
speaking, the pantomimic action of the Italians is more remarkable
for its sudden and impetuous character than for its delicate
expression, but, in this case, the drooping monotony: the weary,
miserable, listless, moping life: the sordid passions and desires
of human creatures, destitute of those elevating influences to
which we owe so much, and to whose promoters we render so little:
were expressed in a manner really powerful and affecting. I should
have thought it almost impossible to present such an idea so
strongly on the stage, without the aid of speech.
Milan soon lay behind us, at five o’clock in the morning; and
before the golden statue on the summit of the cathedral spire was
lost in the blue sky, the Alps, stupendously confused in lofty
peaks and ridges, clouds and snow, were towering in our path.
Still, we continued to advance toward them until nightfall; and,
all day long, the mountain tops presented strangely shifting
shapes, as the road displayed them in different points of view.
The beautiful day was just declining, when we came upon the Lago
Maggiore, with its lovely islands. For however fanciful and
fantastic the Isola Bella may be, and is, it still is beautiful.
Anything springing out of that blue water, with that scenery around
it, must be.
It was ten o’clock at night when we got to Domo d’Ossola, at the