Italian Days and Ways

I went to sleep last night wondering what the sweet-faced custodian of the grim rock had said to Ludovico, and what his reply had been, and so fell to dreaming of a wedding; but Zelphine was the bride, not Angela, despite her orange-blossoms, and the groom was a certain widower who pays intermittent attention to Zelphine—intermittent because she will not allow him to be a "regular steady," as one of our maids used to say in speaking of her own suitor.

You have surely heard of Walter Leonard's devotion to Zelphine, which is so much of an open secret among her friends that when subjects for conversation fail, they fall back with ever fresh interest upon speculations as to whether or not she will eventually accept him and his family of small children. Angela and I have an idea that she left home in order to avoid a crisis in her affairs, and when she looks sad or tired, Angela says that remorse is preying upon her because of the motherless condition of those hapless children. I did not tell Zelphine about my dream, because it is bad luck to dream about a marriage. You scorn all such fancies, I know, but she is really superstitious, and I might injure Mr. Leonard's chances if I should talk just now. Angela and I have our own fun out of the situation. She predicts that he will appear in Venice, which surely would be an appropriate place for a lover to make his entrance, and romantic enough to please Zelphine. This is only idle talk, however, as she has never spoken of the possibility of Walter Leonard's coming over; and pray do forget my gossip. It is too late, and I am quite too tired to rewrite this part of my letter. I know you of old, and so am sure that you will tell no tales.

Sunday, March 27th.

This is a gloriously beautiful day. The Spanish Steps are brilliant in the sunshine, with more flowers than usual on the stalls at the base. As Sunday is a fête-day, the vendors do a thriving business. And how cheap the flowers are! One may have all the roses one can carry, for a franc or two! Yet, with the idea that there is no fixed price in Italy, travellers are always to be seen at the stalls outdoing the Romans themselves in their efforts to cheapen the flowers, while the merchant volubly protests that his house will be desolated and his children in rags if he sells his roses for a soldo less than the asking price. A few artists' models are still to be found sunning themselves on the marble steps or around the fountain of the Piazza di Spagna, but in less brilliant array than one would desire, peasant dress being as little worn in Rome as in Paris.

To go to St. Peter's seemed the thing of all others to do to-day, and we found an accommodating tram waiting for us in the Piazza di Spagna.

They tell us that no one ever realizes the vastness of St. Peter's upon a first visit. However this may be, it seemed immense to us, outside and in. One notices first Bernini's great colonnades on each side of the basilica, which, with its façade, form a hemicycle with the Egyptian obelisk in the centre. Behind the church is the monotonous mass of the Vatican buildings, while in the foreground the twin fountains send up their spires of feathery spray. Small wonder that the practical and thrifty German Emperor advised them to turn off the water. "Turn them off now," he said, after admiring the beauty of the fountains. "It's a pity to waste so much water!" But these fountains of Maderno's have played untiringly, in sunlight and shade, by moonlight and starlight, for nearly three hundred years. Everywhere in Rome one hears the sound of flowing water from the many fountains. In the Borghese Gardens up on the Pincio, in the Piazza di Spagna, down in the Piazza Poli where the great Fountain of Trevi dashes continually, throwing its jets d'eau into the great basin beneath, over in the Piazza delle Terme, near the railroad station—on all sides one hears the refreshing sound of splashing, leaping water.

We wandered about the great basilica as if in a strange city, avoiding, of course, the several chapels in which services were being held, and stopping long before the Chapel of the Pietà, in which Michael Angelo's beautiful marble of the Sorrowing Mother with the dead Christ upon her knees is enshrined. From the gorgeous mosaics in Michael Angelo's dome and from the rich and elaborate tombs of many popes we turned almost with relief to the strong and simple Rezzonico monument, upon which Canova has placed two great lions at the feet of Pope Clement XIII., while in sharp contrast is a graceful, youthful figure, the Genius of Death, holding a torch reversed. Zelphine and I think this the most beautiful example of Canova's work that we have seen anywhere. Another of the monuments that interested us is that erected by George IV. to the memory of the unfortunate princes of the house of Stuart, James III., Charles Edward, and Henry, Cardinal of York.

Zelphine, who adores the Stuarts, almost wept over this tomb, although she could not help smiling a bit at the high-sounding titles engraved upon the monument to Maria Clementina Sobieski, the wife of the second Pretender, whose name is here inscribed as "Queen of Great Britain, France, and Ireland."

We both enjoyed Stendhal's trenchant comment upon the post-mortem honors paid by the Hanoverian king to the Stuart princes: "George IV., fidèle à sa réputation du gentleman le plus accompli des trois royaumes, a voulu honorer la cendre des princes malheureuses que de leur vivant il eût envoyés à l'échafaud s'ils fussent tombés en son pouvoir."

The temporary tomb of the late Pope is in this part of St. Peter's, near the monument of Innocent III. The permanent resting-place of Leo XIII. is to be in St. John Lateran; for this tomb Tadolini is preparing a magnificent monument.

We drove from St. Peter's, by the Tiber, passing the Castle of St. Angelo, where Ludovico took us yesterday to show us the pitiful little cell in which poor Beatrice Cenci was imprisoned. We had already seen her lovely, sad picture at the Barberini Palace. The exquisite, haunting beauty of the Cenci portrait is quite indescribable. As Charles Dickens says, "Through the transcendent sweetness and beauty of her face there is something shining out that haunts me. I see it now as I see this paper or my pen."

This afternoon we drove for an hour or more in the Borghese Gardens, after which we went to the evening service at the American Church in the Via Nazionale, which naturally looked somewhat cold and plain after the gorgeous color and decoration of St. Peter's. It was, however, restful and homelike to sit there and listen to the beautiful service of our own church.

Zelphine says that Catholic visitors in Rome are especially fortunate, as for them the path of duty and the path of pleasure lie side by side, leading them always into the most beautiful churches and giving them the satisfying combination of art and religion. I entirely agree with her, having often felt that in a service in Westminster Abbey an element of adventure was added to the act of devotion. I think it was you who told me of a Scotchwoman who considered a service in the abbey "among the images" too much of a diversion for a Sabbath day. I should think that good Catholic travellers might have somewhat the same feeling about a great ceremonial at St. Peter's.

In the Borghese Gardens, the shadows under the ilex-trees were most lovely this afternoon, the sunshine filtering through the branches here and there, flecking the green sward with spots of light, and bringing out the color of the anemones which grow here in such profusion. We could readily fancy Miriam and Donatello dancing in this sylvan shade, although no vagrant musicians were waking the echoes among the leafy coverts, no herdsman in goatskin breeches, no peasants from the Campagna, or pretty contadine appeared, to add a touch of local color to the natural beauties of the scene.

VIII

VIA APPIA

Monday, March 28th.

Ludovico proposed that we should take the long-talked-of drive along the Via Appia this beautiful afternoon. Knowing Angela's objection to subterranean excursions, he discreetly said nothing about the Catacombs, although I realized well that they were uppermost in his mind, and felt that I might safely trust a bit of diplomacy to this clever little Italian.

As we are living in the north-eastern part of Rome and the Via Appia is in the southern part, leading toward the Pontine Marshes and ancient Brundusium, we had a long drive across the city. We drove through the Corso as far as the Piazza Colonna, with its towering column erected by the Senate and the people in honor of your hero Marcus Aurelius, and then by smaller streets and squares to the Porta Capena. Of this gate, which is associated with so many interesting events, only fragmentary ruins remain. Near it were once grouped temples of Mars and Hercules and the tomb of the young sister of the Horatii, who was betrothed to one of the Curiatii. Ludovico repeated the sad little story, which we had all read in our school-days, of the girl coming out to meet her brother Horatius at the Porta Capena. When she saw the cloak wrought by her own hands borne by Horatius, she wept, as any other girl would have done, knowing that her lover was dead; upon which the cruel Horatius stabbed her to the heart, crying, "So perish the Roman maiden who shall weep her country's enemy!"

To see the place where this sad scene was enacted and the site of the grave of the hapless maiden made it seem as real as if it had occurred last year instead of—how many hundred years ago? We are realizing, as never before, what an old world this is. Even now, out in the Forum, they are opening the graves of men and women who lived before Romulus, as if the Rome of Numa and the Cæsars was not old enough for all antiquarian uses!

The old Romans, like the ancient Egyptians, seem to have had no shrinking from keeping death well in view, as this Via Appia, which was the patrician cemetery of Rome, was also a military highway and a pleasure-drive, and from it still branches a road leading to the race-course. Indeed, there is nothing dismal about this "way of tombs," for the road is wide, paved with large blocks of stone, and flanked by vineyards. On the right are the Baths of Caracalla, on the left are the tombs of the Scipios, while the long bridge-like ruins of the old aqueduct rise here and there above the level of the Campagna, and beyond, framing all, are the mountains. Flowers are blooming along the sides of the road, among the tombs and over them. Angela and Ludovico gathered a large bunch of cyclamen and the purple lady's-slipper orchids. Wherever there is an unsightly stone or a bit of broken wall, Nature has generously covered it with a drapery of green vines or white banksia roses.

Here, out in the sunshine and among the flowers, are the tombs of the grand old heathen, while the good Christians sleep in the dismal subterranean Catacombs. Is not this another example of the way in which the ancient pagan city dominates the Rome of later times?

A little way beyond the fine tombs of the Scipios we passed through the Arch of Drusus, with its equestrian statue and trophies, on whose summit is still a bit of the aqueduct by which Caracalla carried water to his baths. A little beyond the Porta San Sebastiano we came to the small Church of Domine Quo Vadis. You may remember the story which led to its foundation. During a great persecution of the Christians, under Nero, some of St. Peter's converts and devoted friends besought him not to expose his life by remaining in Rome. Peter finally listened to their counsels and fled along the Appian Way; but about two miles from the gate he was met by a vision of the Saviour, journeying towards the city. Filled with amazement, Peter exclaimed, "Domine, quo vadis?" "Lord, whither goest Thou?" To this question his Master replied, sadly, "I go to Rome to be crucified a second time," and vanished. Peter, accepting this as a sign that he was to submit to the sufferings that menaced him, turned back to Rome and met his fate. Hence the little yellow church of Domine Quo Vadis, which was built to mark the sacred spot.

We left the carriage and entered the church, as Zelphine wished to see the sacred footprints upon the stone pavement; but Ludovico told her that those impressions were only copies, the originals being at the Church of St. Sebastian. We walked on and on along the Via Appia, glad to tread the same stones that had been pressed by the feet of St. Peter, St. Paul, and so many great ones of the earth.

We were so much absorbed in the associations of the road, and had such unbounded confidence in our young guide, that we did not even ask where we were going, although I suspected that Ludovico was about to enact his coup d'état for Angela's benefit. Through a gateway shaded by cypresses we followed him into a rose-garden, with a chapel to the left and a booth opposite, where were displayed a number of odd and discordant relics. Here Ludovico stopped to buy some tickets, and then we descended many steps into darkness made somewhat visible by the light of curious little spiral tapers, cerini, which we carried.

Light seemed to dawn upon Angela's mind when the taper was handed to her at the entrance; she turned and shook her finger at Ludovico, exclaiming, "The Catacombs!" I felt at first that it was not quite fair to have beguiled the child here, against her will, to this dismal home of the dead, which cannot fail to impress a sensitive nature. Afterwards, however, Angela was so much interested in the little chapels in which the early Christians worshipped, with the paintings on the walls and the symbols of the fish, the dove, and the anchor over many of the tombs, that she quite forgot her terror.

The guide explained that these Catacombs of St. Calixtus include several columbaria, there being forty separate catacombs extending under the city, covering, according to Michele de Rossi's calculations, an area of 615 acres. The city of the dead is far greater than the city of the living; but this is not to be wondered at, considering the population of Rome under the Cæsars and the large number of converts to Christianity.

We were surprised to find the air mild, not chill and damp as one would expect in underground passages. Although there are wires for electric lights in some of the corridors, the Catacombs are not lighted by electricity. It was introduced five years ago, but was found to be impracticable, as the wires were soon injured by rust; hence we were spared this incongruity. Despite the many tales we had read of travellers being lost in the Catacombs, we never once thought of the danger, although our guide told us more than once that it would be well for us to keep close together.

He took us into a chapel containing the tombs of some of the early martyred popes, as St. Fabian, St. Lucius, and St. Sextus. In some of these chapels, or cubicula, are beautiful inscriptions to Pope Damasus, whose labor of love it was to restore and preserve these tombs of the Christians. At the end of a long inscription over the door of one of the largest of these sepulchral chambers, which records that here lie heaped together a number of the holy ones, the good Pope has humbly added:

"Here I, Damasus, wished to have laid my limbs,But feared to disturb the holy ashes of the saints."

We then entered a chamber with an air-shaft above, like most of the cubicula, where, on the walls, were a number of Byzantine paintings of St. Urban, St. Cecilia, and a head of Christ. The guide told us that this chamber contained the remains of St. Cecilia until they were removed to the Church of Santa Cecilia in Trastevere. Without a word of warning, Ludovico drew us across the room to a niche in the wall, where we saw, lying upon her side, the loveliest of girlish figures. The first impression, in the semi-obscurity, with all the light falling on the recumbent figure, was that of a veiled woman asleep.

"Santa Cecilia!" said Ludovico, in a hushed voice. Zelphine bent forward as if ready to fall on her knees, when the official guide broke the reverent silence by reciting in a sing-song tone, but in quite comprehensible English:

"This rich Roman lady was sentenced to death by the prefect of Rome because she would not sacrifice to idols. After trying to smother the lady in her own bath, but not succeeding, because the saints were watching over her, a lictor was sent to cut off her head; but the saints took the strength out of his arm and he only wounded her, after which she lived three days preaching to the people. Step nearer and you will see the wound on the lady's neck. It is partially covered by a gold necklace."

In the sixteenth century the tomb of St. Cecilia was opened, and her embalmed body was found, beautiful and perfect, as if asleep in her own bed rather than lying in a tomb. Pope Clement III. and all Rome went to the Catacombs to look upon the saint, and Stefano Maderno, the greatest sculptor of his time, was called upon to model the marble statue of the lovely sleeping saint. Maderno's original statue of St. Cecilia we had seen in the Church of St. Cecilia in Trastevere, and also the artist's inscription, in which he says that he has modelled her in the very same posture of body as that in which she was found lying incorrupt in her tomb. Beautiful as is the marble in the church, it failed to impress us as did this replica in the appropriate setting of the cubiculum.

Tears were in our eyes as we turned away, and I heard Angela say to Ludovico, in her softest tone, "It is the most real thing I have seen in Rome!"

"Ludovico has good reason to be pleased with the success of his strategy," whispered Zelphine, and then, wishing to carry away undisturbed this exquisite memory of St. Cecilia, we made our way out toward the open, where we found our carriage awaiting us.

We were all very subdued, for pleasure-seekers, and were silent as we drove on past the vast tomb of Cæcilia, the daughter of Metellus and the beloved wife of the younger Crassus. Above the inscription are Gallic trophies which belonged to the elder Crassus, who was Cæsar's legate in Gaul. The tomb itself, a great round tower seventy feet in diameter, seems more like a fortress than a tomb, and we were not surprised to learn that the monument of this noble Roman lady had been used as a fortress in the thirteenth century.

Beyond this tomb, whose mystery and charm have inspired many a poet, the natural beauties of the Appian Way begin, as the vineyard walls no longer interrupt the more extended view over the Latin plain, with its ruined castles, villages, and aqueducts. When we had driven past the fifth mile-stone, near which are the tombs of the Horatii and the vast ruins of the Villa of Commodus, we were warned by a delicate, violet mist which was rising over the Campagna that it was time to turn towards Rome. Good Romans tell us that their city is perfectly healthful now, since the marshes have been drained, and so it seems to be; but it is always a question whether it is wise to linger near the Campagna about sunset, as we usually notice a chill dampness in the air at this time.

Thursday, March 31st.

Mrs. M., my old friend Rosalie L., has come from Sorrento to spend Holy Week and Easter with us. Dr. M. has a professional engagement which will detain him for a week or ten days, and in the interim we four are visiting churches most assiduously. There are interesting Tenebræ services in nearly all the churches this week. This rainy afternoon we went to Santa Maria Maggiore, which is one of the most beautiful and harmonious buildings we have seen. The mosaics are very rich, and the Borghese Chapel is gorgeous with precious marbles and alabaster. Here above an altar of jasper and lapis lazuli is the famous picture of the Virgin said to have been painted by St. Luke. It is much revered, not only on account of its origin, but because of its having, according to tradition, stopped the plague in Rome and brought about the overthrow of the Moorish dominion in Spain.

At St. Peter's, where we went later in the afternoon to hear the fine music, a lock of the Virgin's hair was exhibited, a piece of the true cross, and St. Veronica's handkerchief. I trust you will never cross-examine me upon the color of the Virgin's hair, and to forestall any such inquiries, I here frankly confess that I did not really see it, as the sacred relics were displayed from a high balcony over the great statue of St. Veronica. The handkerchief we did see, and the face of the Saviour on it, which was distinct. The basilica, near the high altar, was crowded; poor people and soldiers were kneeling beside richly dressed Roman ladies; many of the forestieri, like ourselves, were standing about, gazing at the strange sights, and some of them, I regret to say, were talking.

Rosalie, Zelphine, and I were interested, as indeed we always are, in watching the poor people, who are so attentive and devout, so much in earnest, coming to their churches as to a home. Groups of little children came in holding each other's hands, some of them bringing with them little toddling things of two and three. The face of one little girl I shall never forget, she was so exquisitely beautiful, with the loveliness of childhood and yet with a womanly seriousness in her dark eyes. Rosalie and I imagined Dante's Beatrice looking something like this little girl, and could understand his cherishing in his heart the image of that woman-child all his days.

Easter Sunday, April 3d.

We are glad to have a bright Easter Day, and enjoy it the more because Holy Week has been dark and rainy. We went to the English Church on the Via del Babuino in the morning, and in the afternoon to St. Peter's, to witness a procession of the priests which was somewhat disappointing. We then turned into the Pincio, which was a blaze of color with Judas-trees, wistaria, roses, and anemones. All Rome was in evidence. This is one of the few days in the year when the King and Queen drive out together in state. Angela and I were too late to see them, but Zelphine was more fortunate, as she passed them when she was driving with her cousins. She thought the Queen exceedingly pretty, youthful, and charming.

The well-to-do people were en voiture drawn up in line, the poor on foot crowding the walks and benches near the music-stand, where the band was playing merrily; a good-natured, cheerful crowd, and gayer, it seemed to me, than the same class of people in Paris. Nothing on the Pincio is more picturesque than the nurses in their full skirts of gay colors, with their luxuriant black hair decorated with bright ribbons and gold combs and pins. They look very stylish carrying the aristocratic bambini on pillows. We are told that these unfortunate babies are still swaddled like those in Della Robbia's terra-cottas.

In the meadows adjoining the Borghese Gardens the students of the different colleges were playing ball. Do you wonder that Italian immigrants find our Sundays insupportably dull? Here it is a fête-day all the year, and to-day being the feast of feasts, the people have come out to enjoy themselves in the sunshine. What would your father think of it all, Allan, and your Scotch grandmother? I could feel the shadow of her displeasure darkening the sunshine as I stood in the midst of this joyous crowd, and yet, after all, it seems an innocent way of spending a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

IX

TU ES PETRUS

Via Sistina, April 7th.

A grand and elaborate Gregorian ceremonial is to be held in St. Peter's on Monday, the eleventh, and, as you may imagine, tout le monde, the small world as well as the great, is rushing after tickets. We were able to secure the white entrance cards from our banker on the Piazza di Spagna, with which we were quite satisfied until Miss Dean, the charming Irish lady who sits next to me at the table d'hôte, showed me a yellow biglietto, which assures her a seat in the tribunes. Since then we have been filled with envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. We did not at all understand the difference between the white ingresso cards and the yellow until she explained it, with a delicious rolling of the r in ingresso such as even Angela, with all her aptitude for mimicking, is unable to attain. The white tickets simply give one an entrée to the church, the yellow, which come only to the favored few, are for seats in the tribunes. Recalling Madame Waddington's description of her own sufferings and those of the other diplomatic ladies at the coronation of the Czar Alexander III., we earnestly hope that we may be so fortunate as to have seats in one of the tribunes.