Wednesday, 5th January 1825
My dear Elizabeth--
I trust that this letter reaches you in good health. I touched Rome two days ago. It was a bitter crossing and slower than expected as we ran upon a storm in rounding the Spanish coast. Black and malevolent clouds passed suddenly over the lowering sun and smothered us from above. Of an instant the sea turned a frothy, direful white, the foam slashing the sides of our bark. The ship tottered in the high waves. The rain effectuated a cold that penetrated the bones and rendered the marrows stiff. Captain Clowes sent us below deck. For the remainder of the squall, we sat at table, six of us by lantern-light, buckets to hand and dripping in our overcoats as the storm raged on and on and the seamen stampeded above in alarums and confused excursions that persisted until well past mid-night. When we recovered the air before dawn, the deck was covered in dead fish.
Captain Clowes informed that the storm had left the ship not a rope to spare and a tattered cloud of thread-bare canvas to sail upon. We set at Gibraltar for three days to repair and were blessed from there with favourable wind and serene sea.
When I landed, I discovered that Matthews had done well in securing for me a charming little house near the Farnese Palace, opposite Santa Maria de Monserrato degli Spagnoli, and had it furnished respectably. I left the bulk of the domestic arrangements to him, but attended to the stables personally. It took me the last afternoon and today morning to obtain a pair of extraordinary dapple greys, a pair of lesser bays, and a carriage. In addition to Matthews and the horses, the household now consists of a butler, a cook, two maids, a groom, a coachman, and a general factotum, whom I have decided to name Figaro.
Separate from the house, I also have an apartment on the other side of the Teatro Argentina on Via del Gesù in which I shall locate my studio. Matthews is to shew its state to me tomorrow, and I shall have it set to order. Gerald Murray has promised an introduction to Mr J.M.W. Turner on Sunday.
When I arrived, Robert had an invitation waiting for me. I supped at his house that very night. He is a most welcoming fellow, full of mirth, advice, and good cheer. After the weeks on board Cairo any well-cooked meal would have been a welcome gift to the palate. Robert, like his father, delivers sumptuous repast-- I think I must have lost a stone in the passage and regained much of it in one sitting. After we had eaten, Robert and I retired for port and tobacco, and then re-joined Sophia, who played the harpsichord for us. While we listened, your charming young niece Julia requested from my hand a portrait sketch of her; I think I acquitted myself in producing a fair likeness. As I was leaving, Robert asked me, of course, to convey to you his love and Sophia's; this I do, and this is also the lightest burden my pen ever carried.
I saw Samuel as well, yesterday. He has a striking recent scar on the left side of his face that runs from his cheek to his neck. The brown robes he wears magnify his stoop, but he is yet a hardy walker. We spent the evening and night wandering the city. We roamed a long time, from Via Sistina, to Via Urbana, past San Pietro in Vincoli, then to the Via del Colosseo. He shewed me the side of Rome that abides-- nay, thrives like our London rats-- in the shadows of bright places. If Samuel is to be believed, Catullus was an amateur and Ovid a eunuch. In the dark and massive spectre of the Colosseum, we talked in hushed tones of Messolonghi. We were alone, but spoke anyway in our Balliol Greek. You know my views on the matter. While I am here, I think I must go.
As you requested of me, I sent word to M Charles Villers-Cotterêts that I was in Rome. He waited upon me this noon and remembers you kindly-- le visage d'mille soupirs, he recollects. M Villers-Cotterêts asked me to inform you that the papers you want will take some span of weeks to procure, but that he is confident he can unearth them. I have entreated him to send word of the papers once he has them, and await further instruction from you.
Matthews has stopped in to tell me that Mr Partridge has arrived and seeks an audience. It is an unpleasant duty, but one that I can no longer delay. Though there is much else to tell-- the colour of the Roman sky, so like the blues of Titian-- how San Pietro lifts up the Eternal City like an offering to God-- how Caesar's Tiber is crossed with bridges-- Raphael's tomb in the Pantheon, where I went to place flowers almost the instant I alighted-- the Piazzas in which Michael Angelo walked, their fountains frozen with ice-- the streets so redolent of history and sin-- instead of postponing the sending of this missive to next Monday's post, I shall leave off here.
My compliments to all.
I remain yours, faithful in the heart, and ever-devoted,
Richard.
My dear Elizabeth--
I trust that this letter reaches you in good health. I touched Rome two days ago. It was a bitter crossing and slower than expected as we ran upon a storm in rounding the Spanish coast. Black and malevolent clouds passed suddenly over the lowering sun and smothered us from above. Of an instant the sea turned a frothy, direful white, the foam slashing the sides of our bark. The ship tottered in the high waves. The rain effectuated a cold that penetrated the bones and rendered the marrows stiff. Captain Clowes sent us below deck. For the remainder of the squall, we sat at table, six of us by lantern-light, buckets to hand and dripping in our overcoats as the storm raged on and on and the seamen stampeded above in alarums and confused excursions that persisted until well past mid-night. When we recovered the air before dawn, the deck was covered in dead fish.
Captain Clowes informed that the storm had left the ship not a rope to spare and a tattered cloud of thread-bare canvas to sail upon. We set at Gibraltar for three days to repair and were blessed from there with favourable wind and serene sea.
When I landed, I discovered that Matthews had done well in securing for me a charming little house near the Farnese Palace, opposite Santa Maria de Monserrato degli Spagnoli, and had it furnished respectably. I left the bulk of the domestic arrangements to him, but attended to the stables personally. It took me the last afternoon and today morning to obtain a pair of extraordinary dapple greys, a pair of lesser bays, and a carriage. In addition to Matthews and the horses, the household now consists of a butler, a cook, two maids, a groom, a coachman, and a general factotum, whom I have decided to name Figaro.
Separate from the house, I also have an apartment on the other side of the Teatro Argentina on Via del Gesù in which I shall locate my studio. Matthews is to shew its state to me tomorrow, and I shall have it set to order. Gerald Murray has promised an introduction to Mr J.M.W. Turner on Sunday.
When I arrived, Robert had an invitation waiting for me. I supped at his house that very night. He is a most welcoming fellow, full of mirth, advice, and good cheer. After the weeks on board Cairo any well-cooked meal would have been a welcome gift to the palate. Robert, like his father, delivers sumptuous repast-- I think I must have lost a stone in the passage and regained much of it in one sitting. After we had eaten, Robert and I retired for port and tobacco, and then re-joined Sophia, who played the harpsichord for us. While we listened, your charming young niece Julia requested from my hand a portrait sketch of her; I think I acquitted myself in producing a fair likeness. As I was leaving, Robert asked me, of course, to convey to you his love and Sophia's; this I do, and this is also the lightest burden my pen ever carried.
I saw Samuel as well, yesterday. He has a striking recent scar on the left side of his face that runs from his cheek to his neck. The brown robes he wears magnify his stoop, but he is yet a hardy walker. We spent the evening and night wandering the city. We roamed a long time, from Via Sistina, to Via Urbana, past San Pietro in Vincoli, then to the Via del Colosseo. He shewed me the side of Rome that abides-- nay, thrives like our London rats-- in the shadows of bright places. If Samuel is to be believed, Catullus was an amateur and Ovid a eunuch. In the dark and massive spectre of the Colosseum, we talked in hushed tones of Messolonghi. We were alone, but spoke anyway in our Balliol Greek. You know my views on the matter. While I am here, I think I must go.
As you requested of me, I sent word to M Charles Villers-Cotterêts that I was in Rome. He waited upon me this noon and remembers you kindly-- le visage d'mille soupirs, he recollects. M Villers-Cotterêts asked me to inform you that the papers you want will take some span of weeks to procure, but that he is confident he can unearth them. I have entreated him to send word of the papers once he has them, and await further instruction from you.
Matthews has stopped in to tell me that Mr Partridge has arrived and seeks an audience. It is an unpleasant duty, but one that I can no longer delay. Though there is much else to tell-- the colour of the Roman sky, so like the blues of Titian-- how San Pietro lifts up the Eternal City like an offering to God-- how Caesar's Tiber is crossed with bridges-- Raphael's tomb in the Pantheon, where I went to place flowers almost the instant I alighted-- the Piazzas in which Michael Angelo walked, their fountains frozen with ice-- the streets so redolent of history and sin-- instead of postponing the sending of this missive to next Monday's post, I shall leave off here.
My compliments to all.
I remain yours, faithful in the heart, and ever-devoted,
Richard.
