It is impossible to approach Italy without knowing its saints. Just like the great artists of the peninsula, they are one of its greatest treasures. Every city, every corner of Italy has its own saints. We will try not to forget any of them. But, first of all, we will write extensively about the Saints of Lake Maggiore, just as I will write about the saints of Venice: Gerard Sagredo (980–1046), Lawrence Justinian (1381–1456), and Gerolamo Emiliani (1486–1537). Today, I will introduce you to the first of them, who was not only a bishop and martyr of the Catholic Church but also an extraordinary medieval scholar.

A Venetian Family, an Oblate Boy and a Future Bishop

Saint Gerard of Csanád was born on April 23, 977, in a noble Venetian family, Sagredo. When baptized, he was named after one of the most famous Christian Saints: Georgio (George). He was only five years old when he fell seriously ill. This desperate situation, in an epoch when a flu was enough to lose your life, cause his parents to ask for the help of God to whom they promised the child’s life if he survives. Thus, like Saint Thomas Aquino who, at the same age, five, was given to the Monte Casino Monastery, the little Giorgio becomes oblate to the Benedictine abbey of San Giorgio Maggiore in his hometown, Venice. Here he receives the most elevated education.

Later on he will be sent to Bologna to study philosophy, grammar, law and music. At this time, his father dies in a battle waged near Jerusalem. To honor his memory, Giorgio changes his name to that of his heroic parent, Gerardo. In 1004 he is consecrated priest and around 1015 he is chosen the abbot of his monastery. In the same year, during a journey whose final destination was Jerusalem, he met on Pecs the holy King Stephen I of Hungary. His intellectual and moral qualities determine the monarch to entrust him with the education of his son, Prince Emeric. Even though he accepts such a difficult task, Gerard will always prefer to live an austere life of hermit.

In 1030 he is appointed bishop of the diocese of Csanád (Hungary). For the next sixteen years, Bishop Gerard carries out an intense activity, setting up parishes and consecrating many churches. He takes care to set up a school where future clerics study medieval liberal arts and theology. Wishing to prepare his place of rest he creates, in 1037, with the support of King Stephen, a Benedictine monastery in the locality of his Episcopal seat, Csanád.

The death of the sovereign, one year later, will trigger a long series of struggles for succession that will last until 1046 when a new king, Andrew I, will be crowned as the new King of Hungary. In the same year, on 26 August, Bishop Gerard is killed, along with his two companions, bishops Bystrík and Buldus, during their journey to the crowning ceremony. The terrible act was committed by a militia of the pagan Hungarian population who wanted to block the ongoing process of Christianization of the country. The full recognition of the virtues and qualities of the great bishop Gerard Sagredo will take place few years later, in 1068, when he is canonized, simultaneously with his protector, King Stephen of Hungary, and prince Emeric.

A Brilliant Medieval Treatise

Besides a holy life rewarded by God with the crown of martyrdom, Saint Gerard left us an amazing work, entitled Deliberatio supra hymnum trium puerorum (The Deliberation on the Hymn of the Three Young Man). Together with other masterpieces of medieval literature, Gerard’s writing can be placed on the same level beside famous works like the Etymologies of Saint Isidore or the Commentary on Job by Saint Thomas Aquinas. This jewel of biblical interpretation is a true compendium of allegorical interpretation, applied with genius and inspiration to biblical sacred texts.

Saint Gerard’s basis for his whole work is the interpretation of the hymn dedicated to God by those three young and deeply religious Jews, Sidrach, Misach, and Abdenago, presented in the third chapter of the Book of Daniel (verses 26 to 45). This interpretative work will reveal the links between this hymn and many other verses and books from the Holy Bible, all of them solved by Saint Gerard with a mastery comparable with that of Saint Maximus the Confessor.

The importance of all those themes exposed by Saint Gerard is so great that hardly can be presented without omitting something significant. For instance, under the influence of the theory regarding the hierarchy of knowledge proposed by Saint Isidore of Seville, Gerard states the analogical similitude of the so called trivium and the whole cosmos: the grammar is Heaven, rhetoric is the Earth while dialectics represents the Sun, the Moon and the Stars. As we can see, as in the case of mystical poets like Saint Therese of Avila or Saint John of the Cross, we can hardly say how much from such a statement is science and how much of it is art or poetry.

What especially has retained my attention is the argument, as brief as succinct, given by the Venetian author to demonstrate the legitimacy of the allegorical interpretation of the Holy Scripture:

I previously said that the philosophers have admitted the existence of seven heavens. This statement does not lack mystery, lest we are impeded by those who say that allegory in the interpretation of the Scriptures is inappropriate. But Paul, the source of the teachings, often directs us to the deepest allegories. But the prophets seem to be enveloped by the clouds of allegories. The Savior Himself only spoke to the crowds in parables. (...) Even in the writings of holy poets (like King David) can be recognized some symbols.

Obviously, for Saint Gerard the main school where someone can learn the difficult but marvelous art of interpreting the Holy Scriptures is the Bible itself. The name of Saint Paul, who teaches us that Hagar and Sarah symbolize the two Testaments (Galatians, chapter 14), is the first invoked. Then the prophets, and especially Christ, the Savior, who teaches His disciples that the seeds from the parable of the sower symbolize the different types of souls and their attitude towards the word of God (Matthew 13: 18-23), or that the tares of from the parable of the tenants are the sons of the devil (Matthew 13: 36-43). So, as Saint Gerard emphasizes, we can even find in the pages of the Holy Bible allegorical interpretations meant to help us in our spiritual growth. This involves not only reading Holy Scripture, but also learning the language of sacred images and symbols that runs through it from its beginning, in the book of Genesis of Moses, to its conclusion, in the book of Revelation of Saint John. This, then, is the invitation addressed to us by Saint Gerard!

After the sunny days spent in Venice, we set out for Lake Maggiore, passing into a gray, overcast weather that foretold possible rain—the kind that invites melancholy and reflection. I never suspected for a moment that we would have the chance to encounter a true colossus.

When one hears such a phrase, seemingly inspired by Bernard of Chartres (12th century A.D.), anyone would think it to be nothing more than a metaphor. A visit to the crypt of the famous Milan Cathedral, where the earthly remains of Saint Charles Borromeo rest, would seem to say it all. We spent an extraordinary time contemplating the wonders of the Cathedral. The eternal sleep of the saint prompted us, in reverent silence, to withdraw and continue our journey.

A small name inscribed on the map guided us toward what had, until then, been unimaginable: Colosso di San Carlo Borromeo. “What could this be?” we wondered. Without much hesitation, we decided to make a detour on our way to the pearl of Lake Maggiore, Stresa, to see what kind of colossus this might be.

The splendor of the lake made us forget the dull weather. Fortunately, the rain was still holding off. Fascinated by the disconcerting diversity of the vegetation, we traveled along the narrow roads, absorbing in every sight that surrounded us. Climbing Via Verbano, we first saw the enormous red building of the so-called Collegio de Filippi. As soon as we turned right, passing in front of the Church of Saint Charles, we were struck with awe: before us, at quite a distance, stood out against the whitish-gray sky the strangely blue statue of the Colossus.

The vastness of the entire plateau does not immediately allow you to grasp the true proportions of the statue. And even less could one imagine—without knowing the history of this remarkable creation—that it is not an achievement of modern engineering. In fact, it is an incredible accomplishment of the 17th century, when the plan of Giovanni Battista Crespi (1573–1632) materialized in the form of this sculpture made of copper. Hence the explanation for its rather unusual color.

The achievement was so highly esteemed that even the French sculptor Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi (1834–1904)—the creator of the Statue of Liberty in New York—visited Arona in 1869 to see the magnificent work. Here is his comment, in which one can detect a subtle note of professional envy:

This work of art has a peculiar interest in virtue of its material execution. It is, I think, the first example of the use of répoussé copper mounted on iron trusses. In ancient times metal beaten out into sheets had already been used. But it was used as a covering or was modeled on a solid form of wood or stone. Gold, silver and copper were thus employed in Grecian antiquity and in the extreme Orient. The statue of St. Charles Borromeo is the first known example of a statue of répoussé copper, worked with the hammer inside and outside, and freely supported on iron beams. The work was executed in a somewhat coarse style, but it is interesting, and has the merit of being the result of a bold initiative. The copper is a little thin, measuring only a millimetre in thickness, and yet the whole work has stood until today, that is to say, for two centuries.1

Nearly a century and a half after Bartholdi made that statement, we can now confirm the enduring strength of a work that has stood for more than three centuries on the hills near the city of Arona.

However, the greatest surprise came when we discovered, once we reached the statue, that climbing onto the shoulders of the colossus was actually possible. In practical terms, its interior can be ascended all the way up to the area of the shoulders and head, where wide windows open onto breathtaking views of Lake Maggiore and its surroundings.

I cannot describe the emotions I felt when I realized, in the most concrete way possible, that Bernard of Chartres’s metaphor—“We are dwarfs perched on the shoulders of giants”—could be fulfilled not just in spirit, but literally. But what meanings might such a wondrous ascent conceal?

Paradise Lost and Childhood Memories

When I was only seven years old, a friend from the neighborhood made one of the most unexpected invitations I had ever received: to accompany him to the City Library of the place where I was born, Galați. Bearing the name of an illustrious historian and writer, Vasile Alexandrescu Urechia (1834–1901), this citadel of books became the paradise of my childhood. How many days and evenings did I not spend here? The reference room, in particular, attracted me like a magnet with its treasures—old encyclopedias and dictionaries, among which Larousse quickly became my favorite. I learned French by copying articles from this monumental work, articles that, in the evenings, I translated at home, word by word, with the help of a dictionary.

My passion for astronomy was nurtured by studying the volumes dedicated to the citizens of the sky—stars, planets, and comets—that I found here, while at the same time I searched for more and more literary works, which I read avidly. But as any castle must also have a wise man, the “V.A. Urechia” Library had its own: the historian Paul Păltănea (1924–2008).

Looking at this extraordinary scholar, whose tall figure was dominated by a serene and venerable face, with piercing eyes gazing at you from beneath the canopy of thick, white eyebrows, you could not tell whether you were standing before a patriarch or a wise man like Gandalf. His white beard, elegant manners, and slightly French accent endowed the presence of one of the most learned people I have ever met with an unforgettable charm. As the years passed, I came to understand that Paul Păltănea was the true memory of the city of Galați. His passion for local history led, in 1994, to the publication of a monumental work, Istoria orașului Galați de la origini până la 1918 (The History of the City of Galați from Its Origins to 1918). Such writings are true treasures of the places and regions whose existence conceals marvelous histories and secrets, secrets and histories.

Guardians of the Historical Treasures

If the city of Galați had in Dr. Paul Păltănea a true guardian of its treasures, Lake Maggiore has—as expected—its own historians. One of the most important among them was Father Vincenzo de Vit (1811–1892). Born in Mestrino, which at the time belonged to France, Father de Vit, under the influence of Blessed Antonio Rosmini Serbati (1797–1855), entered the institute founded by the latter in Stresa. It is therefore no surprise that, driven by his passion for history, he wrote a monumental book of Lake Maggiore and the town of Stresa: Il lago maggiore: Stresa e le isole Borromeo, a work published in two volumes that appeared in 1875 and 1878.

If, however, you are wondering who the successors of this remarkable historian might be, let me assure you that they do exist. In fact, most of what I know about the history of Piedmont, Lombardy, Lake Maggiore, and the settlements around it is owed to them. Of course, knowledge of the Italian language is necessary.

That being said, today I will introduce an exceptional personality of the city of Stresa: the distinguished Mrs. Vilma Burba. For the citizens of this Piedmontese region—from Domodossola and Gravellona Toce to Verbania, Stresa, Luino, and Arona—Mrs. Burba is a name known to all. A passionate researcher of local histories, she brings to light not only remarkable historical figures who lived or merely passed through these places, but also the wonderful stories of Lake Maggiore.

Mrs. Burba maintains two online publications in the form of two absolutely extraordinary “twin” blogs: Appunti Retrodatati (Antedated Notes)1 and Racconti Stresani (Stories from Stresa).2 Since discovering them almost a year ago, I have not stopped exploring them, reading and rereading the treasures gathered there by the author. The motto of the first is as meaningful as it gets:

Conoscere il passato per comprendere il presente e progettare il futuro (To know the past in order to understand the present and to think the future).

For the curious, I should add that here you will find extensive histories of each settlement—beginning with Stresa and continuing with those in the surrounding area. In addition, alongside numerous articles on local history, visitors can contemplate old photographs and paintings, stories, accounts, period articles from various newspapers, and much more. Exploring these blogs in search of information about artists, writers, and poets—who, as you know, represent my main interest—I discovered the poem of an Italian author who deserves to be brought back into our attention: Arturo Graf (1848–1913).

The Charm of Stresa in a Summer Poem

In a substantial post dedicated to the pearl of Lake Maggiore, Stresa raccontata (Tales from Stresa),3 Mrs. Burba gathered numerous “literary” traces left by encounters with the lakeside town in the writings of those who visited it. Near the end of the article, a short sentence introduces the poem I will present today: “Arturo Graf in Le Danaidi pubblicava questo sonetto dedicato a Stresa.” First, I will answer the natural question: “Who is Arturo Graf?”

What we learn from the biographies dedicated to him is impressive. For we are not dealing with an “amateur” poet, but with a professional one, a true man of letters who contributed to the founding of the Giornale della letteratura italiana.

Born in Athens, Greece, to a German merchant father and an Italian mother, Arturo grew up in a bilingual family environment, with a special passion for foreign languages. A speaker of Greek and Italian, he lived for a period in Trieste, traveling across Italy like all the great writers of the 17th–19th centuries. After the death of his father in 1855, he lived with his family for a short time in the port city of Brăila, Romania. A substantial article by Mrs. Corina Tucu, published in the journal Orizzonti Culturali Italo-Romeni (Italian–Romanian Cultural Horizons), titled “Un mediatore culturale ante litteram della Romania: Arturo Graf,”4 highlights Graf’s literary activity in Romania. What matters to us is that here he studied with a famous Venetian professor active in Romania, Luigi Frollo, alongside whom he learned the art of poetry.

Returning to Italy, he obtained his libera docenza in Italian literature in 1875, which allowed him to become a member of the Chair of Neo-Latin Literature at the University of Turin. Although signs of his deep interest in the Christian (i.e., Catholic) faith were already present, a true conversion was triggered by the tragic suicide of his brother Otto in 1894. From this moment on, we can speak of a Catholic poet and writer, similar to Clemens Brentano, Barbey d’Aurevilly, Joris-Karl Huysmans, or Alessandro Manzoni. Recognized both as an important historian of Italian literature and as one of the most valuable poets of the early 20th century, he would publish, until the end of his life in 1913, further volumes of poetry as well as a single novel, Il riscatto (Redemption), which appeared in 1901.

In 1905, the poetry volume Le Danaidi5 was published by the Ermann Loescher publishing house in Turin. Dedicated to his wife, Sofia Rauchenegger, whom he had married in 1893, the volume contains numerous poems inspired by German and French Romanticism, which had always been his main literary reference points.

In the second part of the volume is the poem that drew my attention through Mrs. Vilma Burba’s article. The title says it all: Notte di luglio a Stresa (A July Night in Stresa). For those who have visited the wonderful town on Lake Maggiore, the atmosphere is unforgettable: “Prodigious silence, deep stillness, inscrutable mystery…” Until I will offer you a complete translation into English, here is the original in Italian:

NOTTE DI LUGLIO A STRESA

By Arturo Graf

Notte di luglio placida, serena,
     Sotto l'immenso sfavillio de' cieli;
     Selvosa, alpestre, inobliabil scena,
     Che di lievi ed incerte ombre ti veli;

Acqua che splendi addormentata, e appena
     Lungo la riva ti rincrespi e aneli;
     Vento che passi, e con sì blanda lena
     Predi gli odori agli assonnati steli;

Prodigioso silenzio, alta quïete,
     Inscrutabil mistero, ove la ria
     Cura si spegne e la malvagia sete;

Muta, profonda, incognita armonia,
     Accogliete il pensier stanco, accogliete
     La ferita e piangente anima mia.

(Arturo Graf, Le Danaidi, Torino: Casa Editrice Ermanno Loescher, 1905, p. 68).

Invisible yet perpetually present everywhere on the peninsula, the spirit of eternal Italy has inspired not only the creations of its own artists—whom it has generously offered to universal culture—but also those of wanderers through these lands, whose history has left us layer upon layer of astonishing testimony. Exploring her inexhaustible universe and discovering the traces of “perennial Italy” (Italia Perennis) left by writers and poets in their works is the intention at the origin of this Substack newsletter.

A recent discovery in a French book of poetry published in the first part of the twentieth century adds to a collection that continues to grow. It belongs to the sphere of influence exerted by the treasures of Lago Maggiore—more precisely, the Borromean Islands. Many years before Ernest Hemingway discovered this icon of Paradise, a French-language poet and journalist named René Mossu (1901–1970)1 immortalized the profound influence of a visit to Isola Bella.

The poem I discovered while reading an anthology of Savoyard2 poets is titled, simply, evocatively, and nostalgically, Isola Bella. What better proof could we have of the beauty of the fascinating island’s name—a name that is itself a verse in the great poem of the world? A visit to this unforgettable place, together with his wife, inspired Mossu to write the poem he dedicated to his beloved lady.

Born in 1901 in Annemasse, in the immediate vicinity of Geneva, he visited Lago Maggiore on numerous occasions. Such an opportunity allowed him not only to contemplate the extraordinary white peacocks—imperial birds, enchanting to the eyes and hearts of those who know how to appreciate elegance and distinction—but also “the pearl of Lago Maggiore,” Stresa. To see and describe the marvelous town from one of the Borromean islands is an experience that cannot be forgotten. Wrapped in the shadows of the descending evening, the settlement appears to the poet as a luminous vision:

Stresa, plus imprécise, était dans un mirage…

Stresa, a vague contour, was in a mirage…
(Another possible translation: Stresa, a vague contour, was veiled by a mirage…)

Stresa, un contorno vago, era in un miraggio…
(Or: Stresa, un contorno vago, era velato da un miraggio…)

As we read and marvel, we may recognize that, before these beauties, we are no more than René Mossu was: “un pèlerin dans l’ébahissement” (“a pilgrim in awe”). Here is the entire original poem:

ISOLA BELLA

By René Mossu

Dedication: A Ma Femme.

Dans son jardin royal où la grande azalée

Cache en ses frondaisons les splendides paons blancs,

Près du lac dont la grâce à sa grâce est mêlée,

Sur les célestes flots qui caressent ses flancs,

Au sein de son palais, au milieu de ses roses,

Parmi les orangers et dans l’enchantement

Des marbres merveilleux aux immortelles poses,

J’étais un pèlerin dans l’ébahissement.

Le soir, je me souviens, prenait le paysage,

Et nous abandonnait ses premières fraîcheurs;

Stresa, plus imprécise, était dans un mirage,

Une cloche vibrait dans l’île des pêcheurs.

L’instant était si doux dans l’île parfumée,

Qu’au bonheur que j’avais de te savoir à moi,

S’ajoutait le bonheur, ô chère bien-aimée,

De vivre dans ce lieu qui doublait mon émoi.

Alors quand les bazars aux bibelots d’albâtre

Cessèrent d’attirer les derniers visiteurs,

Les terrasses formant un sombre amphithéâtre,

Semèrent dans la brise un peu de leurs senteurs.

Ton corps, dans un frisson, demanda des caresses;

Pensant que ton regard et que tes chastes yeux

Réclamaient dans la nuit de divines tendresses,

Je mis tout mon amour dans un baiser pieux.

(Anthologie des Poètes Savoyards Contemporains, Publiée sous la direction de Patrice Buet, Paris: Revue Moderne des Arts et de la Vie, 1927 p. 114).

Doctor in civil and ecclesiastical law, an aristocrat by birth on his father’s side—Count Gilbert of Arona—and also on his mother’s side, Margaret (the sister of Pope Pius IV), who descended from the Milanese branch of the famous Medici family, Charles Borromeo (1538–1584) can truly be considered, in every respect, an alter Christus. Following the example of Our Lord Jesus Christ, he gave his life for the flock entrusted to him. Reading the monumental biography written by Giovanni Pietro Giussano (1553–1623) reveals to us the details of a perfectly Christian life. Yet what impresses us most—just as it impressed readers across the centuries—is the heroism he showed during the great plague epidemic, known as “the plague of Saint Charles,” which struck the city of Milan between 1576 and 1578.

The first significant detail we learn from Father Giussano’s biography concerns the origins of this terrible epidemic. It all began with the visit of a distinguished figure of the time, Don Juan of Austria. In his honor, the notables of Milan had prepared lavish celebrations. This happened at precisely the same time when, at the initiative of Cardinal Archbishop Charles, numerous acts of devotion were being organized to revive Christian piety. The festivities in honor of Don Juan could only distract the public’s attention, deeply saddening the saint’s heart. Without resentment but with profound lucidity, he foretold the consequences of these thoughtless worldly entertainments:

The streets which had lately been paced by penitents in sackcloth now reeled with crowds of maskers in the gaudy liveries of the world. These were evidences of a lightness and instability of purpose which wounded the heart of the saint. Great indeed was the grief with which he foretold the punishments which would shortly come upon his infatuated flock.1

When Father Jerome Maggiolini of Monza wrote to the Archbishop about a strange fever that had already begun to claim victims, the Cardinal immediately understood that punishment was at the door. With the same visionary calm, he once again declared “that the people of Milan had called down upon themselves the wrath of God by their ingratitude and forgetfulness of His mercies.”2 Without anger toward the flock’s carelessness, his message echoed the words of our Lord Jesus Christ to the inhabitants of Jerusalem:

How often would I have gathered together thy children, as the hen doth gather her chickens under her wings, and thou wouldest not? (Matthew 23:37).

And, like his Master, Saint Charles would sacrifice his own life for those who had ignored his warnings and tireless apostolic labors. When Father Giussano told him about the protective measures taken by the city authorities against the epidemic, he replied that no human power could prevent disaster. With exemplary perseverance, he repeated that only divine intervention could stop the plague. And indeed, it soon broke out, halting instantly all worldly ceremonies and feasts. The cowardice of those who had indulged in revelry soon became evident:

Then mirth was changed into mourning. The prince, in whose honour this unseasonable merry-making was held was the first to take fright and fly to Genoa in hot haste, followed by the Governor and many of the nobles, leaving the city full of dismay.3

Abandoned by most of their leaders, the people turned to their only visible help—Saint Charles Borromeo. From that moment, he revealed the incredible greatness of his nobility, illuminated by the imperishable glory of divine holiness, which grew ever brighter to reveal to the world the Colossus of Arona. Calmly, he spared no effort to organize care for the sick. He spoke to the few nobles who had remained, convincing them not to flee like the others. But what the saint knew better than anyone was what must be done to obtain God’s mercy. The description is deeply moving:

Being fully persuaded that this visitation had been sent as a chastisement for sin, he gave himself up to prayer with greater frequency and fervour than usual to avert the anger of God, and to ask for light to know and grace to do His holy will. These prayers he accompanied by increased fasts and austerity of life, depriving himself of his straw pallet, sleeping upon bare boards, with only a sheet for coverlet, and spending great part of his nights in prayers and tears, chastising in himself the sins of others in order to appease the indignation of God against his flock.4

However pale our words may seem compared to the grandeur of such a soul, we must exclaim: behold a true shepherd! Behold a saint! Calling insistently to penance, he organized public processions in which both the clergy and members of religious orders, as well as the few nobles who remained in Milan, took part. His cry reminds us of the words of the angel in the last part of the secret of Fatima: “Penance, Penance, Penance!”5 Like another Saint John the Baptist, he ceaselessly called everyone to repentance. At the same time, he continued to perform deeds that entered into legend.

Deeply moved by the heroism of his crimson-robed predecessor, Cardinal Manning recounted in the introduction he wrote to the English edition of Saint Charles’s life several of these deeds. But the first image he impressed upon our memory is the only balm for the souls of the afflicted: the tears of Saint Charles streaming from eyes pained by the misery and suffering he saw everywhere. The Colossus of Arona had a father’s heart. Amid the cries and groans of the dying, he confessed, prayed, blessed, and encouraged wherever hope had perished. Returning from his journeys, he leaned against the walls, nearly crushed under the weight of the mission he bore. On one such occasion, he said:

Have you fully realised,” he said, „the depth of wretchedness of these poor people, not plague-stricken alone, but forsaken of men, and what is far more deplorable, destitute of spiritual succour, not a single priest being found to take compassion upon them? It is I who am the cause in not having been the first to set the example of aiding them. Still, if God does not send them help in other ways, I know my duty.6

His final words were absolutely extraordinary: “I know my duty.” Heroic words from a true aristocrat, cardinal, and holy shepherd of the Roman Catholic Church. Every lover of Holy Tradition can make them a rule of life and action.

Beyond the rare qualities of his leadership, the measure of his love for the souls entrusted to him is overwhelming. As living proof, we recall the two deeds of Saint Charles that Cardinal Manning insisted on retelling in his introduction. The first concerns a mother and her little daughter, both stricken by the plague and trapped in a house whose door had been sealed. Without hesitation, the scion of the illustrious Borromeo family used a ladder to climb through an upstairs window into the room where the two lay. The mother was dead. After praying for her soul, the Cardinal descended the ladder holding the child tightly in his arms. The child survived. Deeply moved by this incredible act, Manning rightly exclaimed:

A deed worthy of a picture.7

A second equally astonishing deed occurred when Cardinal Archbishop Borromeo himself, stricken by the fever of the deadly plague, was brought from his family residence in Arona to Milan. Despite his terrible state, what do you think the Saint did? With a faint but gentle and steady voice, he questioned the boatmen ferrying him across Lake Maggiore, making sure they knew their prayers, the act of perfect contrition, and the essential teachings of the Catechism. In other words, even standing before death itself, he never ceased to care for the souls of his flock. Here, His Eminence Cardinal Manning adds a masterful commentary that reveals the secret of one of Italy’s most brilliant saints:

Such a life can be formed only by a faith which lives in the unseen world, while it toils and suffers in this; and by prayer which is a second consciousness at all hours, sustained and deepened by habitual meditation on the Passion of our Redeemer. The Burial of Jesus in the Tomb was his constant meditation because it was the lowest humiliation of God, and perhaps because it promised the only rest he looked for in his waning life.8

Indeed, it was the supernatural faith of Saint Charles Borromeo that earned him the crown of sainthood. Father and Doctor of catechists, fierce defender of Christian orthodoxy against sects and heretics, he was a truly loving father to the souls entrusted to his care. In turbulent times such as ours, we are convinced that his example can animate, encourage, and inspire us.

Sancte Carol Borromee, ora pro nobis!

Considered a typical Romanticist author, Théophile Gautier (1811–1872) proves, like any other true poet or writer, that both classifications and labels are misleading business. This fact is even more visible in his case, due to the numerous genres covered by his writings: fantastic stories, historical novellas and novels, vampire tales and drama, epic poetry, and (almost) knightly adventures. Moreover, Gautier wrote plays for the theatre and librettos for ballet operas, while also publishing critical essays and articles on literature, theatre, music, and dance. A truly chameleonic spirit, like any modern artist, and an ardent defender of the controversial aestheticist philosophy “art for art’s sake,” he remains remarkable above all for his prolific talent.

What particularly interests us here is the meticulous travel journal he wrote during a long journey through Italy in the year 1850. Published, as was customary at the time, first in the form of a serial, it was later issued as a volume under the title Italy in 1852, and then reprinted in 1875 under its definitive title, Voyage en Italie (Travels in Italy). In this volume, we can first learn about the passage of the writer across the border between countries.

Gautier’s expectations will be put to the test by the rainy weather that will accompany him along the journey from Switzerland to Italy. What is absolutely remarkable is the honesty with which he, the French author, acknowledges a unique “sentiment de la beauté” (translated by Kline as “an instinct for beauty”) that is specific to Dante’s country:

Italy presented itself to us in an unexpected aspect. Instead of the azure sky and warm orange tones we had dreamed of, though failing to consider that, after all, northern Italy could scarcely possess the climate of Naples, we met with a cloudy sky, vaporous mountains, perspectives bathed in bluish mist, like a view of some place in Scotland, done by an English watercolourist, a moist, verdant, velvety landscape worthy of being praised by a Lake poet.

Though not the picture we had imagined, the one we had before our eyes was no less beautiful; the mountains blurred by the clouds that dissolved in rain, the green flats strewn with villas, the road lined with houses festooned with vines supported by granite pillars, the gardens enclosed by upright stone slabs, formed, despite the storm which delivered a downpour, a graceful and magnificent ensemble. Already, every detail of construction revealed an instinct for beauty, and an attention to form, which exists neither in France nor in Switzerland.1

(Probably it is a good moment to emphasize that this Substack newsletter has been born precisely from the acknowledgment of this “instinct of beauty.”)

Like Byron and Newman, Gautier will cross the Simplon Pass, after which he will enter Italy through Domodossola. Upon reaching Lake Maggiore, he will provide far more detailed descriptions than those of other travelers. Preoccupied with the continuous exercise of his creative capacity, the French author will note numerous details of the unforgettable landscape through which he travels, eager for new sensations and impressions. In addition to the stylistic features of the buildings encountered along the way, he is visibly delighted by the variety of flowers and plants he comes across:

Our route bordered the lake, and waves licked the roadway; we progressed beside an endless series of gardens, and villas with white peristyles, roofed with rounded tiles, and of terraces garlanded with lush vines, supported by granite props. There, granite fulfils the function of fir-wood at home. It is used for fencing, piles, and even plank-like slabs, on which washerwomen soap laundry by the lake, on their knees as if to ask its forgiveness for this outrage. On these terraces, often of several tiers, which support well-tended gardens, all kinds of flowers and shrubs flourish. We noted on several occasions, and not without astonishment, for it was the first time we had encountered the like, masses of gigantic hydrangeas, which, instead of displaying the pink or mauve colours common in France, offered charming shades of azure: these blue hydrangeas really struck us, since blue is the chimerical dream of horticulturists, who seek the blue tulip, the blue rose, the blue dahlia, without finding them, the number of flowers of that colour being extremely limited. I write this trembling with fear, lest I am scolded by Alphonse Karr, who is unforgiving where literary botany is concerned. But the hydrangeas of Lake Maggiore are undeniably blue. We were told that the colour was obtained by growing them in ericaceous compost. Such is the advice of the gardeners of the Borromean Islands, which must be good advice, since all these hydrangeas the colour of the sky, were magnificent. The same result can also be achieved by sprinkling the earth with iron salts.2

The Borromean Islands occupy, as expecting, the most important place in Gautier’s description. Probably informed by the sources available to him at the time, he presents them with particular emphasis on the best-known of them, Isola Bella. The description unfolds on three levels: the picturesque vegetation, the architecture, and the influence of the architect Giacomo Barozzi da Vignola (1507–1573) on the design of the entire architectonic complex.

The passage that once again demonstrates Gautier’s passion for the Italian setting is the one in which he ventures to suggest that Isola Bella would have been a more suitable location for the characters of Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s novel Julie ou la Nouvelle Héloïse (Julie or the New Heloise - 1761):

These islands have been the subject of enthusiastic descriptions which they do not justify when seen from the shore. The ten terraces of Isola Bella, crowned by a unicorn, or terminating in a Pegasus, have a theatrical aspect which hardly suits the word humilitas, the motto of the Borromean family, inscribed in every corner. Isola Madre, with its seven embankments, supports a square place, tedious in its symmetry, and we were surprised that it is so warmly celebrated. There, one finds the ideal and prototype of the French garden as it was understood in the days of Louis XIV, a garden which Antoine, Boileau’s gardener, would have loved. The Romantic imagination, with all due respect to Jean-Jaques Rousseau, who wished to place his Julie there, would do well to choose another site for their heroines; this one would better suit Madame de Lafayette’s princesses.3

His critical reflection on the apparent inadequacy between the word humilitas on the coat of arms of the famous Borromeo family and the appearance of the island shows that his understanding of the notion in question is rather superficial. However, the reference to the “Romantic imagination” makes us smile when we think of those authors who consider Gautier himself a “Romantic” writer. How “narrow” such labels are!

The description continues with a happy, though inaccurate, evocation of the immortal Alessandro Manzoni ( 1785–1873). By comparing his wise and distinguished figure to that of Alphonse de Lamartine, Gautier pays to this giant of Italian literature the homage he deserves:

It is in Belgirate, a little before Arona, that Alessandro Manzoni, the illustrious author of Promessi sposi (The Betrothed) lives. He is often seen sitting in front of his door, facing the lake, watching the passers-by. He has a benevolent, venerable, distinguished face, whose lean outlines recall the visage of Alphonse de Lamartine. Each day, whatever the weather, one of his friends, some profound philosopher or metaphysician, visits him, in order to commence one of these elevated discussions which find no solution here below, since they speak of the high mysteries of the soul, of the infinite and of eternity.4

Those familiar with the area immediately noticed Gautier’s error: the house of Manzoni’s wife, Teresa Borri Stampa (1799–1861), is the so-called Palazzo Stampa,5 which today houses the Banca Popolare di Novara.6 This building, however, is not located in Belgirate, but in Lesa. It is true, nonetheless, that before coming here, Manzoni used to stay in Belgirate.

The purpose of these journeys to the localities along the western shore of Lake Maggiore was connected to his friendship with the man he regarded as one of the great thinkers of Italy at the time: the Blessed Antonio Rosmini-Serbati (1797–1855).7 In the latter part of his life, Rosmini lived in the “pearl of Lago Maggiore”—the small yet wonderful town of Stresa.

Unfortunately, Rosmini’s name is not mentioned. Memory played a trick on Gautier here, just as it did in the case of Countess Anna de Noailles, who forgot that the Borromean Islands are located in Piedmont, not in Lombardy. We do not blame them for such errors. On the contrary, we are glad that they give us the opportunity to deepen our knowledge of this region, which has inspired so many poets and writers.

For example, I can now tell you that in the building in Lesa where Manzoni spent many days contemplating the beauties of Lake Maggiore lies the Museo Manzoniano.8 There, one can movingly see Manzoni’s writing desk as well as his most important treasure: the books from his personal library.

Returning to Gautier’s text, the final section is devoted to his approach to Milan, though not before mentioning the great marvel of Arona: the gigantic statue of Saint Charles Borromeo, completed in 1698:

Approaching Arona, one sees on the hill to the right the Sancarlone, the colossal statue of San Carlo Borromeo, which dominates the lake; it is the largest statue created since the Colossus of Rhodes, or that of Nero, in the Golden House. The saint, posed in a simple and noble attitude, holds a book in one hand and with the other seems to bless the land that he protects and which extends at his feet. One can climb, within, to the head of this colossus, which is made of forged and cast iron, by a staircase made in the mass of masonry with which it is filled. This giant statue, which gradually emerges from the woods with which the hill is covered, and which ends by dominating the horizon like a solitary watchman, produces a singular effect.9

The comparison with the Colossus of Rhodes and with Nero’s statue in the Golden House clearly shows that he was deeply impressed by the daring work of Giovanni Battista Crespi (1573–1632).

At the same time, I notice that his remark concerning the material from which the statue was made—“forged and cast iron”—is erroneous: in fact, it is made of copper. This detail makes it even more amazing. However, at that time its color was most likely metallic and slightly greenish. Thus, appearances misled Gautier. In any case, the meticulousness with which he describes its details makes this travel page worthy of our attention.

Gautier’s journey continues. Since my intention has been only to present the part in which his travels along Lake Maggiore are recounted, I shall stop here, inviting you to read the entire volume, in which you will find many other remarkable memories.

Lord Byron, the Lost Navigator

As was the case with French and German writers, Italy had always exerted a powerful, unavoidable, and almost irresistible attraction on English authors as well. It was as if their literary destiny could not be fulfilled without visiting Dante’s world and receiving his invisible blessing. And they enthusiastically fulfilled this ritual. The memories preserved in their letters and diaries—even when brief and written in haste—are the visible traces left on their souls by an encounter that cannot be forgotten.

On his final travel out of England, never to return alive again, Lord Byron found time to write to his half-sister, Augusta Leigh. He sent her a letter from Milan, dated October 13, 1816, in which he described his aquatic journey along Lake Maggiore:

My dearest Augusta,

You see I have got to Milan. We came by the Simplon, escaping all perils of precipices and robbers, of which last there was some talk and apprehension, a chain of English carriages having been stopped near Cesto a few weeks ago and handsomely pilfered of various chattels. We were not molested.

The Simplon, as you know, is the most superb of all possible routes;—so I shall not describe it. I also navigated the Lago Maggiore, and went over the Borromean Islands; the latter are fine but too artificial; the lake itself is beautiful, as indeed is the whole country from Geneve hither, and the Alpine part most magnificent.1

In a style that is unexpectedly reminiscent of Hemingway—although he lived more than a century before the American writer—Byron avoids the pitfalls of clichés and predictable descriptions of the most beautiful part of the journey, which he himself qualifies as “superb.” He awakens his sister’s aesthetic curiosity only to end it abruptly, refusing to follow the natural narrative thread.

When it comes to the Borromean Islands, he performs almost the same stylistic pirouette. By making his Romantic inclination toward wild landscapes, untouched by human hands, manifest, he admires while criticizing—or criticizes while admiring—the islands of Lake Maggiore, which he presents as being “too artificial.” Most likely, this is another manifestation of his modern belief that one can speak of something truly beautiful only, and almost exclusively, a contrario.

A Saint in the Footsteps of Saint Charles: John Henry Newman

Unlike the turbulent Byron, the holy theologian and novelist John Henry Newman left us far less pretentious notes. While during his first journey (1833) to Italy the Protestant Newman had expressed strong reservations toward the country of the popes, the second journey (1846-1847)—this time undertaken by the converted Newman—is full of revelations. The voyage along the same route traveled exactly thirty years earlier by the author of Don Juan is imbued with the spirit of a pilgrim heading toward Rome.

In his personal journal, the note concerning the route along Lago Maggiore is quite telegraphic: “Slept at Brigue a few hours on each side of midnight, and then crossed the Simplon, arriving at Domodossola about 3—thence on to Arona, at midnight, and through the night to Milan where we arrived about 11 a.m.—to the Duomo at once for Mass, lodged at the Hotel Garni—taking meals at a wretched trattoria.”

However, in the letter written in Milan on September 22, 1846, which he sent to his friend and disciple John Dobree Dalgairns, he provides far more details:

From Besançon we started on Wednesday morning—had a most beautiful ride to Lausanne over the Jura mountains; Mont Blanc and the Alps all before us on our right and opposite the lake of Neuchatel. But I must not now describe scenery... It was very delightful to find a little chapel near the summit [of the Simplon] which we entered for a few minutes: there was no light and I think it must have been too great a risk to leave the Blessed Sacrament there, but still it was very cheering; a little further on nearer the top Newman and I stopped at a Crucifix and gained an indulgence I hope which was written up in German on the cross. The Italian side is more beautiful than the other and the descent longer as it seemed, for it was near 4 before we got to Domodossola. From Domo we started in an hour’s time, passed thro’ Saint Charles’s town Arona at midnight, and got to Milan just in time to hear the last mass on Sunday morning in the Duomo.2

The succinct assessment—“the Italian side is more beautiful than the other”—as well as the mention of the city of Saint Charles, Arona, are the only notes recording the passage along the shores of Lago Maggiore. Yet Saint John Henry Newman’s discovery of perennial Italy is a long epic poem, with many stanzas that must be recounted at length, before a fireplace.

A Winter Story and Its Author: Charles Dickens

In 1846, the travel volume entitled Pictures from Italy was published in London. With a simple and transparent title, Charles Dickens announced to his numerous readers that he was offering them his travel notes from the country called by Dante “il bel paese” (Divine Comedy: Inferno, Canto XXXIII, line 80). Unlike Byron and Newman, who describe their entry into Italy, Dickens travels in the opposite direction, from Milan toward Switzerland. We are therefore dealing with his return journey to England. Moreover, he offers us a dickensesque page of literature; his effort to render as vividly as possible the dreamlike landscapes contemplated by moonlight is remarkable:

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 towards 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 foot of the Pass of the Simplon. But as the moon was shining brightly, and there was not a cloud in the starlit sky, it was no time for going to bed, or going anywhere but on. So, we got a little carriage, after some delay, and began the ascent.3

In contrast to Byron’s description, Dickens mentions the Borromean Islands—and especially Isola Bella—in order to emphasize their beauty despite the artificial character of their terraces and magnificent buildings. He is captivated by their charm without showing any reserve or restraint. His advance toward the Simplon Pass, under the brilliant light of the moon, reveals Dickens as an incurable, though unsophisticated, Romantic, whose pages we always read and reread with pleasure.

Every language, every culture has its own linguistical and philological instruments. It also has essential instruments for learning the language. The most important modern cultures—English, American, German, French, Italian, Spanish, etc.—have multiple such instruments.

Over the years, I have collected in my library an impressive collection of dictionaries, lexicons, vocabularies, and encyclopedias from all the languages that interest me and the other members of my family: Greek, Latin, English, French, Spanish, Polish, Italian, Romanian, German. Some of them are rarely touched, but others are indispensable.

For example, the most used English dictionary is Oxford for Advanced Learners. Why is this dictionary so important for us? Because it provides not only the meaning of many words, but at the same time it offers concrete examples—often full phrases and sentences—that allow the learner to see how the words are really used in daily conversations. A similar dictionary is one of the most famous French linguistic tools—Le Robert. In Italian, such a precious dictionary is Zingarelli.

With a modest title, Vocabolario della lingua Italiana, the Zingarelli dictionary—edited by an equally famous publisher named Zanichelli (from Bologna)—was published for the first time in 1917. So, we are talking about a linguistical instrument that is more than one century old. Exactly like the mentioned Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary, Zingarelli is monolingual—in other words, it provides all the explanations in Italian. That is why it is recommended mainly to advanced students of Italian.

Its quality cannot be emphasized enough. But, after editing, re-editing, and continually improving it for more than one hundred years, it is understandable why it reached the peak of the art of explaining words. In any case, if you ever want to master the Italian language in such a way as to be able to read Italian masters of poetry and prose like Dante Alighieri, Carlo Goldoni, Alessandro Manzoni, Giovanni Papini, Dino Buzzati, or Prince Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa (to name just a few of them), Zingarelli is the real deal.

In the same vein, among the essential tools necessary for those who want to learn Italian at the highest possible level, a universal manual is not an Italian one, but a foreign one: Barron’s 501 Verbs, published by the well-known publisher Barron’s Educational Services. This is an incredible encyclopedia of the main Italian verbs, with all their conjugations (in all tenses and moods).

Again, this one is not for beginners either—even though, with good guidance, it can be used at the first (medium) levels of learning Italian. For a Romance language, where the conjugation of verbs and the declension of nouns are crucially important, this is an indispensable instrument that will be your “friend” for many years—if not for your whole life. That is because the process of learning a language (even your native one!), is not something that can have a certain, definite end—but a perpetual effort of deepening both the words and the rules to use them truly literarily, i.e., aesthetically.

The rest is inspiration, isn’t it?

The Borromean Islands have gained their fame by offering the eye landscapes that, on rainy autumn days or frozen winter evenings, evoke colorful memories imbued with the scent of exotic plants. Endowed with a special charm, they have inspired creators from all epochs and countries to seek their immortalization in word, image, sound, or matter.

This is why Lago Maggiore itself, or villages like Stresa, Baveno, Verbania, and everything that can be known and admired in this world of Saints Carol and Federico Borromeo enchanted me from the first visit. The sum of testimonies we will gather in these pages will clearly prove this fertile inspiration, crystallized in remarkable creations. Among them, a poem that can rightly be considered the poetic hymn of Lago Maggiore deserves an eminent place.

Created by one of the most important poets from early 20th-century France, Anna, Comtesse Mathieu de Noailles (1876–1933), it was included in the pages of her volumes of verse entitled Les Climats (Climates–Paris: Société du Livre Contemporain, 1924). The poem itself is named Musique pour les Jardins de Lombardie (Music for the Gardens of Lombardy).

Probably confused by the variable geography of Lago Maggiore, which is crossed by the invisible border between the regions of Lombardy and Piedmont, she implicitly placed the Borromean Islands and some of the lakesides towns in Lombardy.1 We will overlook this inaccuracy, soothing our hearts with Countess Anna’s poem. I am certain that all those living in Stresa will cherish her inspired words:

O matin de Stresa, turquoise respirante,
Sublime agilité du coeur vers le soleil!

(O morning of Stresa, breathing turquoise,
Sublime agility of the heart's élan toward the Sun!)

(O mattino di Stresa, turchese respirabile,
sublime agilità del cuore verso il sole!)

And the inhabitants of Pallanza (Verbania) will create songs that convey the emotions sculpted in these diaphanous verses:

Et Pallanza, là-bas, sur qui le soleil flambe,
Semble un corps demi-nu, languissant, vaporeux,
Qui montre ses flancs d’or, mais dont les douces jambes
Se voilent des soupirs du lac voluptueux...

(And Pallanza, down there, upon whom the sun blazes,
Seems like an almost unveiled body, wistful, vaporous,
Showing its golden flanks, but whose delicate calves
Cover themselves in the sighs of the voluptuous lake...)

(E Pallanza, laggiù, su cui il sole divampa,
Sembra un corpo quasi svelato, languido, vaporoso,
Che mostra i suoi fianchi d’oro, ma le dolci gambe
Si velano dei sospiri del lago voluttuoso…)

As for visitors to the Borromean islands, they can memorize the entire poem, from which the memory of the discreet flashes of auroral light in these oases will always shine:

Les suaves matins des îles Borromées!...

(The delicate mornings of the Borromean Islands!..)

(Le soave mattine delle Isole Borromee!...)

The writer and critic Marcel Proust (1871–1922) will not miss the opportunity to applaud the poem dedicated to the wonders of Lago Maggiore, in a letter dated March 20, 1908.

Comparing the literary talent of Countess Anna with the virtuosity and musical genius of Richard Wagner, he emphasizes the polyphonic tonalities of the descriptions that embrace the landscape whose heart is Lake Maggiore:

At the moment in my meditations about it is of Wagner that you remind me. I hope this doesn’t annoy you and is not insulting to the immensity of your dreams and the omnipotence of your orchestration, you who are Siegfried, even more than Isolde and whose verses on the Gardens of Lombardy combine the myriad tones of a multitudinous orchestra like a celestial choir Stirring a thousand voices that sing within one’s heart.2

Until we will be able to present the complete translations in English and Italian, we offer you the entire French original:

MUSIQUE POUR LES JARDINS DE LOMBARDIE

Les îles ont surgi des bleuâtres embruns...
O terrasses ! Balcons rouillés par les parfums !
Paysages figés dans de languides poses;
Plis satinés des flots contre les lauriers-roses;
Nostalgiques palmiers, ardents comme un sanglot,
Où des volubilis d'un velours indigo
Suspendent mollement leurs fragiles haleines !...

Un papillon, volant sur les fleurs africaines,
Faiblit, tombe, écrasé par le poids des odeurs.
Hélas ! on ne peut pas s'élever ! La langueur
Coule comme un serpent de ce feuillage étrange,
Le thé, les camphriers se mêlent aux oranges.
Forêts d'Océanie où la sève, le bois
Ont des frissons secrets et de plaintives voix...
O vert étouffement, enroulement, luxure,
Crépitement de mort, ardente moisissure
Des arbres exilés, qu'usent en cet îlot
La caresse des vents et les baisers de l'eau...

Et Pallanza, là-bas, sur qui le soleil flambe,
Semble un corps demi-nu, languissant, vaporeux,
Qui montre ses flancs d'or, mais dont les douces jambes
Se voilent des soupirs du lac voluptueux...

O tristesse, plus tard, dans les nuits parfumées,
Quand les chauds souvenirs ont la moiteur du sang,
De revoir en son coeur, les paupières fermées,
Et tandis que la mort déjà sur nous descend,
Les suaves matins des îles Borromées !...
Je goûte vos parfums que les vents chauds inclinent,
Profonds magnolias, lauriers des Carolines...

Les rames, sur les flots palpitants comme un coeur,
Imitent les sanglots langoureux du bonheur.
O promesse de joie, ô torpeur juvénile !
Une cloche se berce au rose campanile
Qui, délicat et fier, semble un cyprès vermeil;
Partout la volupté, la mélodie errante...

O matin de Stresa, turquoise respirante,
Sublime agilité du coeur vers le soleil!
O soirs italiens, terrasses parfumées,
Jardins de mosaïque où traînent des paons blancs,
Colombes au col noir, toujours toutes pâmées,
Espaliers de citrons qu'oppresse un vent trop lent,
Iles qui sur Vénus semblent s'être fermées,
Où l'air est affligeant comme un mortel soupir,
Ah ! pourquoi donnez-vous, douceurs inanimées,
Le sens de l'éternel au corps qui doit mourir !
Ah ! dans les bleus étés, quand les vagues entre elles
Ont le charmant frisson du cou des tourterelles,
Quand l'Isola Bella, comme une verte tour,
Semble Vénus nouant des myrtes à l'Amour,
Quand le rêve, entraîné au bercement de l'onde,
Semble glisser, couler vers le plaisir du monde,
Quand le soir étendu sur ces miroirs gisants
Est une joue ardente où s'exalte le sang,
J'ai cherché en quel lieu le désir se repose...

Douces îles, pâmant sur des miroirs d'eau rose,
Vous déchirez le coeur que l'extase engourdit.
Pourquoi suis-je enfermée en un tel paradis !
Ah ! que lassée enfin de toute jouissance,
Dans ces jardins meurtris, dans ces tombeaux d'essence,
Je m'endorme, momie aux membres épuisés !
Que cet embaumement soit un dernier baiser,
Tandis que, sous les noirs bambous qui vous abritent,
Sous les cèdres, pesants comme un ciel sombre et bas,
Blancs oiseaux de sérail que le parfum abat,
Vous gémirez d'amour, colombes d'Aphrodite !
Des parfums assoupis aux rebords des terrasses,
L'azur en feu, des fleurs que la chaleur harasse,
Sur quel rocher d'amour tant d'ardeur me lia!...

Colombes sommeillant dans les camélias,
Dans les verts camphriers et les saules de Chine,
Laissez dormir mes mains sur vos douces échines.
Consolez ma langueur, vous êtes, ce matin,
Le rose Saint-Esprit des tableaux florentins.

Tourterelles en deuil, si faibles, si lassées,
Fruits palpitants et chauds des branches épicées,
Hélas ! cet anneau noir qui cercle votre cou
Semble enfermer aussi mon âpre destinée,
Et vos gémissements m'annoncent tout à coup
Les enivrants malheurs pour lesquels je suis née...

(Anna, Comtesse Mathieu de Noailles, Les Climats, Paris: Société du Livre Contemporain, 1924, pp. 45-48.)