Landscape and Imagination: The Italian Mountains in Romantic Travel Writing

[1] since “every perception is at the same time a projection” [MILANI 2001, p. 14. My translation]. Far from being an innocent act of recognition, the result of a supposedly innate empathy between humankind and nature, the apprehension of landscape is an act of cultural construction, entailing aesthetic models and comparisons. Whenever sensory stimuli – mainly of a visual, but also of an aural kind – enter the mind of a traveller, they are filtered by means of aesthetic categories (the sublime, the picturesque, the beautiful, the graceful…) and styles (classical, romantic…) which are linked to the figurative and literary traditions [MILANI 2001, p. 50], but this creative process also entails “philosophical, scientific, political and religious elements” [ASSUNTO 1973, p. 7. My translation].
As a result, sweeping cultural changes may significantly alter the perception of landscape in the course of just a few decades. Many important studies have been devoted to the evolution of the taste for landscape in the eighteenth century, notably to the increasing appreciation of mountains, thanks to the works of poets, novelists and naturalists as well as to the fortune of the sublime and the picturesque, the former being theorised in 1757 by Edmund Burke and the latter explored at the turn of the century by William Gilpin, Uvedale Price and Richard Payne Knight. Moreover, basic changes in “theology, philosophy, geology, astronomy” were instrumental in the discovery of the aesthetic appeal of mountains. [NICHOLSON 1959, p. 3].
The premises of this new trend are apparent already in a 1712 text by the ‘founding father’ of eighteenth century aesthetics – Joseph Addison’s essays on the Pleasures of the Imagination.  After describing sight as “the most perfect and most delightful of all our Senses”, Addison declares:

It is this Sense which furnishes the Imagination with its Ideas; so that by the Pleasures of the Imagination or Fancy (which I shall use promiscuously) I here mean such as arise from visible Objects, either when we have them actually in our View, or when we call up their Ideas into our Minds by Paintings, Statues, Descriptions, or any the like Occasion. [ADDISON 1907 , Vol. III, pp. 276-77]

Having qualified nature as the primary source, and the eye as the primary vehicle, of those external stimuli that nourish the imagination, Addison lists three main aesthetic categories – Greatness, Novelty and Beauty. As instances of Greatness Addison chooses “the Prospects of an open Champain Country, a vast uncultivated Desart, of huge Heaps of Mountains, high Rocks and Precipices, or a wide Expanse of Waters,” all embodying nature’s “rude kind of Magnificence” – a choice of landscapes that anticipates the eighteenth century vogue for the wilderness, the mountain and the sea. Likewise when Addison claims that “Such wide and undetermined Prospects are as pleasing to the Fancy, as the Speculations of Eternity or Infinitude are to the Understanding.” [ADDISON 1907, Vol. III, p. 279], these words anticipate Burke’s poetics of the sublime – “Infinity has a tendency to fill the mind with that sort of delightful horror, which is the most genuine effect, and truest test of the sublime.” [BURKE 1990, p. 67].
Such premises are precious clues to understanding the aesthetic revolution that took place during the eighteenth century. Although one can hardly aspire to shed new light on a field that has been so thoroughly explored by scholars, the imaginative dimension of landscape in romantic travel writing concerning the Alps and the Apennines provides scope for some reflections on the margins of the twin aesthetic categories of the sublime and the picturesque. It also invites one to reappraise the concept of landscape, in order to probe its complex sensory dynamics, which are often implicitly restricted to the sense of sight, whereas they involve likewise the sense of hearing. Both Addison and Burke were aware of this. While the former underlined the interaction between the visual aspect of a lanscape and the sounds and smells that accompany it [ADDISON1907, Vol. III, p. 282], the latter remarked in his Philosophical Enquiry:

The eye is not the only organ of sensation, by which a sublime passion may be produced. Sounds have a great power in these as in most other passions. […] The noise of vast cataracts, raging storms, thunder, or artillery, awakes a great and aweful sensation in the mind. [BURKE 1990, p. 75]

Imagination under strain

The sublime, as we know, generally implies the confrontation with a potentially destructive force, but we could also define the sublime as a virtual and paradoxical condition – an emotion of terror that engenders delight insofar as it is actually experienced with relative safety. Malcolm Andrews describes De Loutherbourg’s An Avalanche in the Alps (1803) as “an experiment in the Sublime” [ANDREWS 1989, p. 42] since in the painting the figures are both retreating and safe, almost feigning their flight from the snow. What this picture spectacularly unleashes is the destructive force of Alpine nature, which could be experienced (or imagined) by travellers with a voyeuristic frisson, similar to what Hester Lynch Piozzi evoked while relating her passage through the Alps in 1784:

Going down the Italian side of the Alps is, after all, an astonishing journey; and affords the most magnificent scenery in nature, which varying at every step, gives new impression to the mind each moment of one’s passage; while the portion of terror excited either by real or fancied dangers on the way, is just sufficient to mingle with the pleasure, and make one feel the full effect of sublimity. [LYNCH PIOZZI 1973, p. 23]

These mixed feelings eventually became a stock-in-trade of romantic art, and occasionally also degenerated into a pose, but their presence can already be felt in early eighteenth-century texts. A letter Thomas Gray wrote from Italy in November 1739 genuinely embodies that precarious balance between fear and stupefaction that would later amount to a calculated literary effect:

I own I have not, as yet, any where met with those grand and simple works of Art, that are to amaze one, and whose sight one is to be the better for: But those of Nature have astonished me beyond expression. In our little journey up to the Grande Chartreuse, I do not remember to have gone ten paces without an exclamation, that there was no restraining: Not a precipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, but is pregnant with religion and poetry. […] One need not have a very fantastic imagination to see spirits there at noon day. [GRAY 1971, Vol. I, p. 128. My italics]

Drawing a parallel between the perception of art and landscape, Gray describes the mountain as the source of an uplifting spiritual and poetical experience due to its power to move the imagination, making us attain the supernatural domain of the ‘invisible’. Even this creative faculty, however, can be paralysed by an excess of fear, as Gray relates in the same letter, “Mont Cenis, I confess, carries the permission mountains have of being frightful rather too far; and its horrors were accompanied with too much danger to give one time to reflect upon their beauties.” [GRAY 1971, I, p. 129] And yet, in a previous letter Gray could not refrain from attempting to render the view he commanded when he reached the snowy plain on top of Mount Cenis:

The immensity of the precipices, the roaring of the river and torrents that run into it, the huge crags covered with ice and snow, and the clouds below you and about you, are objects it is impossible to conceive without seeing them; and though we had heard many strange descriptions of the scene, none of them at all came up to it. [GRAY 1971, Vol. I, p. 126. My italics]

The sublime both elicits and resists description insofar as it sets the imagination to work but ultimately proves overpowering.
A similar dialectics between landscape, the imagination and language marks William Beckford’s An Excursion to the Grand Chartreuse, in the Year 1778, which opens under the sign of excess, “The Grand Chartreuse has exceeded my expectations; it is more wonderfully wild that I can describe, or even you can imagine.” [BECKFORD 1971, p. 263. My italics] Right from the beginning of his account, Beckford foregrounds the interplay between factual reality and the imaginative life, but in spite of the torrential flow of words that fills these dense pages the text repeatedly thematises the author’s inability to fully describe what the mind perceives in fleeting moments of extraordinary emotional intensity,

I walked towards the edge of the great fall, and there, leaning on a fragment of the cliff, looked down into the foaming gulph, where the waters were hurld along over broken pines, pointed rocks, and stakes of iron. Then, lifting up my eyes, I took in the vast extent of the forests, frowning on the brows of the mountains. It was here first, I felt myself seized by the Genius of the place, and penetrated with veneration of its religious gloom; and, I believe, uttered many extravagant exclamations; but, such was the dashing of the wheels, and the rushing of the waters at the bottom of the forges, that what I said was luckily undistinguishable. [BECKFORD 1971, p. 265]

So deep is Beckford’s empathy with landscape that he feels actually possessed by its vital emanation – the Genius of the place – and in this condition of panic trance, bordering on a darkly religious ecstasy, the traveller gives free rein to his imagination. Yet readers are not allowed to share his wildest ravings, which are ‘providentially’ made unintelligible by the deafening turmoil of water. This rhetorical strategy – which simultaneously evokes and veils – is well suited to sublime landscapes, whose vastness exceeds the compass of the human mind, acting as a bridge towards the unattainable perception of the infinite. While early romantic texts are pervaded by the zest for emotions and the cult of the imagination, in the later stages of the romantic age such effects tended to become more emphatic and at times slightly caricatural. A case in point is Anna Jameson’s The Diary of an Ennuyée (1826), a fictional travelogue whose nameless heroine, suffering the miseries of unrequited love, seems to take pleasure in the solipsistic celebration of her troubled inner life, alternating between ennui and dejection until the journey ends with her death. Now and then, however, the melancholy and detached attitude of the main character is superseded by a renewed feeling of empathy with the surrounding nature. Characteristically, mountains are the ennuyée’s chief source of delight, as is shown by these lines, purportedly written in Geneva:

Now I feel the value of my own enthusiasm; now am I repaid in part for many pains and sorrows and errors it has cost me. Though the natural expression of that enthusiasm be now repressed and restrained, and my spirits subdued by long illness, what but enthusiasm could elevate my mind to a level with the sublime objects round me, and excite me to pour out my whole heart in admiration as I do now! How deeply they have penetrated into my imagination! – Beautiful nature! If I could but infuse into you a portion of my own existence as you have become a part of mine – If I could but bid you reflect back my soul, as it reflects back all your magnificence, I would make you my only friend, and wish no other. [JAMESON 1836, p. 8. My italics]

Unable to anchor her emotional life to that of another human being, the heroine romantically longs for a deeper exchange between her soul and nature, but she can only acknowledge this as an impossibility. The rebellion against nature’s indifference to human suffering is a common romantic theme and romantic poets really believed their word had the power to change the world. It suffices to think of “The Ruined Cottage” (1797-98), where Wordsworth paradoxically presents the eternal appeals of the poets to nature as proof of “the strong creative power / Of human passion”, although a few years later John Ruskin would famously label this tendency to project one’s feelings on the natural world as a pathetic fallacy. Of course, Jameson’s Diary is not a product of this Golden Age of romanticism and at times borders on the grotesque, but her first person narration enables Jameson to ascribe every excess to the ennuyée’s unsettled condition.
Another interesting passage concerns the ennuyée’s crossing of the Apennines between Bologna and Florence – a stretch of high land that was still disparaged by most writers as late as the second half of the eighteenth century, until suddenly acquiring a dark charm thanks mainly to Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), Montoni’s castle being plausibly set in this area. Such literary appeal was further enhanced by a notorious series of crimes that actually took place in the inn of Covigliaio, on the topmost part of the mountain ridge, and that became known all over Europe through the account Joseph Forsyth offered in his Remarks on Antiquities (1816) [FORSYTH 2001]. Characteristically, it is in the gothic setting of this inn that the ennuyée gives shape to her impressions of the Apennines,

At Covigliajo in the Apennines. – O for the pencil of Salvator, or the pen of a Radcliffe! But could either, or could both united, give to my mind the scenes of to-day, in all their splendid combinations of beauty and brightness, gloom and grandeur? A picture may present to the eye a small portion of the boundless whole – one aspect of the every-varying face of nature; and words, how weak are they! – they are but the elements out of which the quick imagination frames and composes lovely landscapes, according to its power or its peculiar character; and in which the unimaginative man finds only a mere chaos of verbiage, without form, and void. [JAMESON 1836, p. 8]

After invoking the twin divinities of the picturesque – Salvator Rosa and Ann Radcliffe – to preside over her description of the Apennines, the ennuyée acknowledges that what ultimately infuses every representation of nature with life-like power is not the technical skill of the author, but the imagination of the viewer/reader. Throughout this intensely romantic text the author’s imagination is rampant, but the Diary should be enjoyed precisely in virtue of its self-conscious, almost parodic quality, which is characteristic of a late stage in the development of a genre but which does not prevent Jameson from providing arresting, vigorous images.

Imagination roaming free

While the sublime character of mountains turned the romantic mind towards the absolute, a different mode of perception of the Alps was also active between the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as is proved by this letter Beckford wrote from the Tyrol,

I ran delighted into this world of boughs, whilst [Cozens] sat down to draw the huts, which are scattered about for the shelter of herds, and discover themselves amongst the groves in the most picturesque manner. These little edificies are uncommonly neat, and excite those ideas of pastoral life, to which I am so fondly attached. [BECKFORD 1971, p. 251. My italics]

The experience of visual pleasure this passage conveys derives from an aesthetic control of nature. While the sublime implies a condition of loss, of ever-renewed and ever-frustrated tension, an unabated effort to comprehend that which exceeds the human sphere, this scene stimulates the imagination on the different plane of the picturesque.
In his theoretical works, Gilpin defined the picturesque by means of key words like roughness and ruggedness. While the smoothness of the beautiful soothes the imagination, picturesque effects such as irregular outlines or contrasting lights and shades enable the imagination to roam around the scene, exploring its recesses, its indeterminacy and internal tensions. The imagination is titillated by just the right amount of asymmetry and variety, while these pictorial qualities legitimate and invite the contemplation of landscape as an aesthetic object.[2] Gilpin, however, clearly distinguished the picturesque not only from the beautiful, but also from the sublime. Being “fond of the simplicity of nature”, the “picturesque eye would range with supreme delight among the sweet vales of Switzerland; but would view only with a transient glance the Glaciers of Savoy.” [GILPIN 1792, pp. 43-44]

While the sublime is “concomitant with terror” [BURKE 1990, p. 61], the picturesque is a pleasurable emotion that often evokes an artificial return to the simplicity of rustic life, as is shown by this passage from Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho,

The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which the travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake and extended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, the verdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone, and the shepherds, leading up the mid-summer flocks from Piedmont, to pasture on its flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to Arcadian landscape. [RADCLIFFE 1970, p. 164. My italics]

Under the pen of Radcliffe the Alps become a study in wintry sublime and summer pastoral, reviving James Thomson’s seasonal paradigm so as to fulfil the aesthetic expectations of readers.
As we have seen, the picturesque expresses a new perception of nature, thriving on diversity, combining the wild and the bucolic, and ultimately celebrating the triumph of the eye. The aesthetic frame that rules our vision becomes the standard of nature, which is regarded as incapable of producing authentically picturesque scenes without the help of the imagination or the reorganising faculty of the artist [MILANI 1996, p. 40]. Hester Lynch Piozzi’s description of Savoy is an example of the travellers’ tendency to perceive nature as a pictorial object:

In these prospects, colouring is carried to its utmost point of perfection, particularly at the time I found it, variegated with golden touches of autumnal tints; immense cascades mean time bursting from naked mountains on the one side; cultivated fields, rich with vineyards, on the other, and tufted with elegant shrubs that invite one to pluck and carry them away to where they would be treated with much more respect. Little towns sticking in the clefts, where one would imagine it was impossible to clamber; light clouds often sailing under the feet of the high-perched inhabitants, while the sound of a deep and rapid though narrow river, dashing with violence among the insolently impending rocks at the bottom, and bells in thickly-scattered spires calling the quiet Savoyards to church upon the steep sides of every hill – fill one’s mind with such mutable, such various ideas, as no other place can ever possibly afford. [LYNCH PIOZZI 1967, pp. 20-21. My italics]

The prominence of visual perceptions in this passage should not make us forget that, like Beckford’s description of the Grande Chartreuse, it has also a marked aural dimension. While Beckford’s Alpine images are accompanied mainly by the sound of roaring torrents, Piozzi aims at a contrapunctal effect between thundering cascades and the reassuring peals of bells.

Imagination run wild

As the light fades imagination starts to prevail over nature, or rather it takes its cue from different kinds of sensory stimuli. The eye rests and the ear becomes keener, transforming our daylight perceptions and sometimes leading to the discovery of what could perhaps be defined as an ‘aural landscape’. Beckford’s account of his journey towards the Grande Chartreuse, at sunset, provides a good example of this tendency,

Pursuing our route, we found ourselves in a deep cleft, surrounded by caverns, echoing with a thousand rills, which trickle down their sides, and, mingling their murmurs with the rattling of our wheels, and the steps of our horses, infinitely repeated and multiplied, formed all together the strangest combination of sounds that ever reached my ears. [BECKFORD 1971, pp. 263-64. My italics]

There is an aesthetic resonance between the sublime landscapes Beckford describes elsewhere in the text and this acoustic effect of multiplied echoes, but Beckford provides us with far eerier nocturnal landscapes, rich in aural effects. A case in point is this account of his journey from Bologna and Florence in 1780, whose visionary quality becomes nightmarish after the advent of the night,

A chill wind blew from the highest peak of the Apennines, inspiring evil; and making a dismal rustle amongst the woods of chestnuts that hung on the mountains’ side, through which we were forced to pass. I never heard such fatal murmurs; nor felt myself so gloomily disposed. I walked out of the sound of the carriage, where the glimmering moon-light prevailed, and began interpreting the language of the leaves, not greatly to my own advantage or that of any being in the universe. I was no prophet of good, but full of melancholy bodings, and something that bordered upon despair. Had I but commanded an oracle, as antient visionaries were wont, I should have thrown whole nations into dismay. [BECKFORD 1979, p. 154]

In the obscurity the sound of the wind and the rustle of the leaves acquire a deeper and sinister meaning, revealing a hidden unconscious world of night-time fears. Spending the night in the Apennines, either travelling or sleeping at a secluded inn, was a sublime experience that often triggered a form of panic. Indeed the presence of Pan – the ancient god of nature – could still be felt in these mountains and the wind itself may have come to represent that force of nature which had been ousted by civilisation.
P.B. Shelley’s Passage of the Apennines (1818) is an instance of the powerful hold the wind sweeping across the Apennines had on romantic travellers. It is precisely by focussing mainly on aural sensations that this fragment of verse exemplifies a ‘poetics of the invisible’,

Listen, listen, Mary mine,
To the whisper of the Apennine,
It bursts on the roof like the thunder’s roar,
Or like the sea on a Northern shore,
Heard in its raging ebb and flow
By the captives pent in the cave below. […] [SHELLEY 1970, pp. 552-53]

Right from the first line the poet invites his wife Mary to sharpen her sense of hearing to fully appreciate the breath of the Apennines – a wind that evokes other sublime aspects of nature such as the thunder and the raging sea. There is a claustrophobic element in these lines, where the isolated carriage is represented as a submarine cave where travellers are entrapped. The dynamic quality of the wind turns it into a powerful symbol of the hidden face of the Apennines, whose subdued daylight appearance is deemed by Shelley as misleading.[3]

The triumph of the imagination

The widespread presence of landscape descriptions in romantic travelogues proves not only that the romantics saw and imagined ‘more’ than previous travellers, who did not share their aesthetic alertness or their interest in nature, but also that they discovered new techniques to render their impressions. With the aid of a rich palette of words and a wide range of emotional effects, the romantics achieved an extraordinary proficiency in the literary form of ‘landscape painting’, exalting the dynamic quality of landscape and fulfilling a ‘prophecy’ Burke had made in 1757, when he had proclaimed the superiority of words to images in the depiction of landscape:

It is one thing to make an idea clear, and another to make it affecting to the imagination. If I make a drawing of a palace, or a temple, or a landscape, I present a very clear idea of those objects; but then […] my picture can at most affect only as the palace, temple, or landscape would have affected in the reality. On the other hand, the most lively and spirited verbal description I can give, raises a very obscure and imperfect idea of such objects; but then it is in my power to raise a stronger emotion by the description than I could do by the best painting. [BURKE 1990, p. 55]

By adopting a multi-faceted approach to landscape, exploring its aural and imaginative dimensions in addition to its visual impact, romantic travellers excelled in the art of bringing nature – and the subject’s experience of nature – to life. A new style of travel writing was born from the romantics’ new perception of nature, but this in turn was the result of a sweeping change in taste and the greater role the imagination played in eighteenth century aesthetics. Gilpin’s 1792 Essay on picturesque travel is a case in point. Armed with their aesthetic weaponry, picturesque travellers pursue natural objects that not only assuage their thirst for the picturesque, but also stimulate:

the power of creating, and representing scenes of fancy; which is still more a work of creation, than copying from nature. The imagination becomes a camera obscura, only with this difference, that the camera represents objects as they really are; while the imagination, impressed with the most beautiful scenes, and chastened by rules of art, forms it’s pictures, not only from the most admirable parts of nature; but in the best taste. [GILPIN 1792, p. 52]

In this passage the emphasis is on “creation”. Imagination provided romantic travellers with a ‘second sight’ that enabled them to see things ‘as they are’ but also ‘as they are not’, opening up a creative margin of non-coincidence and generating a powerful discursive space, legitimising at one and the same time aesthetic and narrative excess. A fine example is the extraordinary Alpine landscape Shelley depicted at the beginning of his Zastrozzi, the Rosicrucian romance he published in 1811:

Red thunder-clouds, borne on the wings of the midnight whirl-wind, floated, at fits, athwart the crimson-coloured orbit of the moon; the rising fierceness of the blast sighted through the stunted shrubs, which, bending before its violence, inclined towards the rocks whereon they grew: over the blackened expanse of heaven, at intervals, was spread the blue lightning’s flash; it played upon the granite heights, and, with momentary brilliancy, disclosed the terrific scenery of the Alps, whose gigantic and misshapen mountains, reddened by the transitory moonbeam, were crossed by black fleeting fragments of the tempest-clouds. The rain, in big drops, began to descend, and the thunder-peals, with louder and more deafening crash, to shake the zenith, till the long-protracted war, echoing from cavern to cavern, died, in indistinct murmurs, amidst the far-extended chain of mountains. [SHELLEY 1986, p. 5]

Gigantic and misshapen, under the sons-et-lumières effects of a stormy night, the Alps provide the ideal setting for the darkly supernatural adventures of Zastrozzi, participating in his inner drama and amplifying it. With an almost caricatural intensity, they become a symbol of the gloomy majesty of nature, of its impervious indifference and threatening force, but also of the turmoil that agitates the hero’s soul on facing the absolute abyss of evil and fear. In a gothic novel of an almost grotesque intensity, where the seen is superseded by the unseen, reality by dreams, and time by eternity, the Alps take on the value of an inner landscape, decreeing the supremacy of imagination over nature.

Bibliography

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