The Memoirs of François René Vicomte de Chateaubriand sometime Ambassador to England. volume 5 (of 6): Mémoires d'outre-tombe volume 5Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de
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The Memoirs of François René Vicomte de Chateaubriand sometime Ambassador to England. volume 5 (of 6): Mémoires d'outre-tombe volume 5
Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de
Chateaubriand, François-René, vicomte de, 1768-1848
I admit all this; but let us well understand one another: it is not
the mountains that exist such as we think that we see them then; it is
the mountains as the passions, the talents and the muses have drawn
their lines, coloured their skies, their snows, their peaks, their
declivities, their irised cascades, their "soft" atmosphere, their
light and tender shadows: the landscape is on Claude Lorrain's palette,
not on the Campo Vaccino. Make me to love, and you shall see that
a solitary apple-tree, weather-beaten, flung crooked-wise amid the
wheat-fields of the Beauce; the flower of an arrow-head in a marsh;
a little water-course in a road; a scrap of moss, a fern, a tuft of
maiden-hair fern on the side of a rock; a moist, smoky sky; a tomtit
in a vicarage garden; a swallow, flying low, on a rainy day, under the
thatch of a barn or along a cloister; even a bat taking the place of
the swallow around a country steeple, fluttering on its gauzy wings in
the last gloaming of the twilight: all these little things, attached to
a few memories, will become enchanted by the mystery of my happiness or
the sadness of my regrets. On the upshot, it is the youth of life, it
is the persons that make fine sites. The ice-floes of Baffin's Bay can
be smiling, with company after one's heart: the banks of the Ohio and
the Ganges mournful, in the absence of all affection. A poet has said:
La patrie est aux lieux où l'âme est enchantée[450].
It is the same with beauty.
Here is too much about mountains: I love them as great solitudes; I
love them as the frame, the border and the distance of a fine picture;
I love them as the rampart and refuge of liberty; I love them as
adding something infinite to the passions of the soul: equitably and
reasonably, that is all the good to be said of them. If I am not to
settle down on the other side of the Alps, my journey across the
Saint-Gotthard will remain a disconnected fact, an optical view in the
midst of the pictures of my Memoirs: I will put out the lamp and Lugano
will relapse into darkness.
[Sidenote: Lucerne cathedral.]
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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