Genoa, March 18th, 1830
Got on so quick from Turin that I went to Alessandria that night, and set off at half-past six yesterday morning. Crossed the field of battle of Marengo, a boundless plain (now thickly studded with trees and houses), and saw the spot where Desaix was killed. The bridge over the Bormida which Melas crossed to attack the French army is gone, but another has been built near it. The Austrians or Sardinians have taken down the column which was erected to the memory of Desaix on the spot where he fell; they might as well have left it, for the place will always be celebrated, though they only did as the French had done before. After the battle of Jena they took down the Column of Rossbach,5 but that was erected to commemorate the victory, and this the death of the hero. I feel like Johnson—‘far far from me and my friends be that frigid philosophy which can make us pass unmoved over any scenes which have been consecrated by virtue, by valour, or by wisdom’—and I strained the eyes of my imagination to see all the tumult of this famous battle, in which Bonaparte had been actually defeated, yet (one can hardly now tell how) was in the end completely victorious. This pillar might have been left, too, as a striking memorial of the rapid vicissitudes of fortune: the removal of it has been here so quick, and at Rossbach so tardy, a reparation of national honour.
The Apennines are nothing after the Alps, but the descent to Genoa is very pretty, and Genoa itself exceeds everything I ever saw in point of beauty and magnificence.
How boldly doth it front us, how majestically—
Like a luxurious vineyard: the hill-side
Is hung with marble fabrics, line o’er line,
Terrace o’er terrace, nearer still and nearer
To the blue heavens, here bright and sumptuous palaces
With cool and verdant garden interspersed.
* * * * * *
While over all hangs the rich purple eve.
Milman’s Fall of Jerusalem.
I passed the whole day after I got here in looking into the palaces and gardens and admiring the prospect on every PALACES AND CHURCHES OF GENOA side. You are met at every turn by vestiges of the old Republic; in fact, the town has undergone very little alteration for hundreds of years, and there is an air of gaiety and bustling activity which, with the graceful costume of the men and women, make it a most delightful picture. Genoa appears to be a city of palaces, and although many of the largest are now converted to humbler uses, and many fallen to decay, there are ample remains to show the former grandeur of the princely merchants who were once the lords of the ocean. Everything bespeaks solidity, durability, and magnificence. There are stupendous works which were done at the expense of individuals. In every part of the town are paintings and frescoes, which, in spite of constant exposure to the atmosphere, have retained much of their brilliancy and freshness. The palaces of Doria are the most interesting; but why the Senate gave him that which bears still the inscription denoting its being their gift it is difficult to say, when his own is so superior and in a more agreeable situation. The old palace of Andrew is now let for lodgings, and the Pamfili Doria live at Rome. The walls are covered with inscriptions, and I stopped to read two on stone slabs on the spot where the houses of malefactors had formerly stood, monuments of the vindictive laws of the Republic, which not only punished the criminal himself, but consigned his children to infamy and his habitation to destruction; though they stand together they are not of the same date. There is no temptation to violate the decree by building again on the spot, for they are in a narrow, dirty court, to which light can scarcely find access. The Ducal Palace now belongs to the Governor. It has been modernised, but in the dark alleys adjoining there are remains demonstrative of its former extent—pictures of the different Doges in fresco on the walls half erased, and little bridges extending from the windows (or doors) of the palace to the public prisons and other adjoining buildings. The view from my albergo (della villa) is the gayest imaginable, looking over the harbour, which is crowded with sailors and boats full of animation.
Evening.—Passed the whole day seeing sights. Called on Madame Durazzo, and went with her and her niece, Madame Ferrari, to the King’s palace, formerly a Durazzo palace. Like the others, a fine house, full of painting and gilding, and with a terrace of black and white marble commanding a view of the sea. The finest picture is a Paul Veronese of a Magdalen with our Saviour. The King and Queen sleep together, and on each side of the royal bed there is an assortment of ivory palms, crucifixes, boxes for holy water, and other spiritual guards for their souls. For the comfort of their bodies he has had a machine made like a car, which is drawn up by a chain from the bottom to the top of the house; it holds about six people, who can be at pleasure elevated to any storey, and at each landing-place there is a contrivance to let them in and out. From thence to the Brignole Palace (called the Palazzo Rosso), where I met M. and Madame de Brignole, who were very civil and ordered a scientific footman to show us the pictures. They are numerous and excellent, but we could only take a cursory look at them; the best are the Vandykes, particularly a Christ and a portrait of one of the Brignoles on horseback, and a beautiful Carlo Dolce, a small bleeding Christ. I saw the churches—San Stefano, Annunziata, the Duomo, San Ambrosio, San Cyro. There are two splendid pictures in the Ambrosio, a Guido and a Rubens; the Martyrdom in the San Stefano, by Julio Romano and Raphael, went to Paris and was brought back in 1814. The churches have a profusion of marble, and gilding, and frescoes; the Duomo is of black and white marble, of mixed architecture, and highly ornamented—all stinking to a degree that was perfectly intolerable, and the same thing whether empty or full; it is the smell of stale incense mixed with garlic and human odour, horrible combination of poisonous exhalations. I must say, as everybody has before remarked, that there is something highly edifying in the appearance of devotion which belongs to the Catholic religion; the churches are always open, and, go into them when you will, you see men and women kneeling and praying before this or that altar, PALACES AND CHURCHES OF GENOA absorbed in their occupation, and who must have been led there by some devotional feeling. This seems more accordant with the spirit and essence of religion than to have the churches, as ours are, opened like theatres at stated hours and days for the performance of a long service, at the end of which the audience is turned out and the doors are locked till the next representation. Then the Catholic religion makes no distinctions between poverty and wealth—no pews for the aristocracy well warmed and furnished, or seats set apart for the rich and well dressed; here the church is open to all, and the beggar in rags comes and takes his place by the side of the lady in silks, and both, kneel on the same pavement, for the moment at least and in that place reduced to the same level.
I saw the Ducal Palace, where there are two very fine halls,6 the old Hall of Audience and the Hall of Council, the latter 150 by 57 feet; and the Doria Palace, delightfully situated with a garden and fine fountain, and a curious old gallery opening upon a marble terrace, richly painted, gilt and carved, though, now decayed. Here the Emperor Napoleon lived when he was at Genoa, preferring Andrew Doria’s palace to a better lodging: he had some poetry in his ambition after all. Lastly to the Albergo dei Poveri,7 a noble institution, built by a Brignole and enriched by repeated benefactions; like all the edifices of the old Genoese, vast and of fine proportions. The great staircase and hall are adorned with colossal statues of its benefactors (among whom are many Durazzos), and the sums that they gave or bequeathed are commemorated on the pedestals. In the chapel is a piece of sculpture by Michael Angelo, a dead Christ and Virgin (only heads), and an altarpiece by Puget. Branching out from the chapel are two vast chambers, lofty, airy, and light, one for the men, the other for the women. About 800 men and 1,200 or 1,300 women are supported here. Many of the nobles are said to be rich—Ferrari, Brignole, Durazzo, and Pallavicini particularly. I forgot to mention the chapel and tomb of Andrew Doria; the chapel he built himself; his body, arrayed in princely robes, lies in the vault. There is a Latin inscription on the chapel, signifying that he stood by the country in the days of her affliction. It is a pretty little chapel full of painting and gilding. In the early part of the Revolution the tomb narrowly escaped destruction, but it was saved by the solidity of its materials. I gave the man who showed me this tomb a franc, and he kissed my hand in a transport of gratitude.
Notes
5 The battle of Rossbach was gained by Frederick the Great over the French and Austrians in 1757.
6 They are left just in the state in which they were in the time of the Republic; the balustrade still surrounds the elevated platform on which the throne of the Doge was placed.
7 The Albergo dei Poveri and the Scoghetti Gardens pleased me more than anything I saw in Genoa. I am sorry I did not see the Sordi e Muti, which is admirably conducted, and where the pupils by all accounts perform wonders. The Albergo is managed by a committee consisting of the principal nobles in the town. The Scoghetti Gardens are delightfully laid out; there is a shrubbery of evergreens with a cascade, and a summer-house paved with tiles—two or three rooms in it, and a hot and cold bath. It is astonishing how they cherish the memory of ‘Lord Bentinck.’7a I heard of him in various parts of the town, particularly here, as he lived in the house when first he came to Genoa. The Gardens command a fine view of the city, the sea, and the mountains. The saloon in the Serra is only a very splendid room, glittering with glass, and gold, and lapis lazuli; by no means deserves to be called, as it is by Forsyth, the finest saloon in Europe. It is not very large, and not much more gilt than Crockford’s drawing-room, but looks cleaner, though it has been done these seventy years or more.
7a [Lord William Bentinck was Mr. Greville’s uncle.]