_Pope, King, and Forum._
I WAS sorry to leave the hotel, the name of which I withhold for
reasons that will be obvious presently. Not that it was in itself a
pleasant caravansary, although eminently respectable, and much affected
by Americans and English. Not that the rooms were ever warm, although
we wasted our substance in fire-building; or that the one dish of
meat at luncheon, or the principal dessert at dinner, always “went
around.” We had hired a commodious and sunny “_appartamento_” of seven
well-furnished rooms in Via San Sebastiano—a section of the Piazza di
Spagna—and were anxious to begin housekeeping.
I _did_ regret to leave, with the probability of never seeing her
again—a choice specimen of the _Viatrix Americana_, a veritable unique,
whose seat was next mine at luncheon and dinner. Our friendship began
through my declaration, at her earnest adjuration, of my belief that
the “kick-shaws,” as she called them, offered for our consumption
were harmless and passably digestible by the Yankee stomach. She was
half-starved, poor thing! and after this I cheerfully fulfilled the
office of taster, drawing my salary twice _per diem_ in the liberal
entertainment of her converse with me. She had been three-quarters of
the way around the world, with her husband as banker and escort; was
great upon Egyptian donkeys and the domestic entomology of Syria, and
could not lisp one word of any dialect excepting that of her native
“Vairmount” and of her adopted State, which we will name—Iowa.
“You sight-see so slow!” was her unintentional alliteration, on the
fifth day of our acquaintanceship. “Aint bin to see a church yet, hev
you?”
I answered, timidly, that I was waiting to grow stronger. “The churches
are so cold in Winter that I shall probably put off that part of my
sight-seeing until Spring.”
“Good gracious! Be you goin’ to spend the winter here?”
“That is our hope, at present.”
“You’ll be bored to death! You wont see _You_-rope in ten year, if you
take it so easy. We calkerlate to do up Rome under a fort_night_. We’ve
jest finished up the churches. On an averidge of thirty-five a day! But
we hed to work lively. Now we’re at the villers. One on ’em you must
see—sick or well. ’Taint so very much of it upstairs. The beautifullest
furnitur’ I ever see. Gildin’ and tay-pis_try_, and velvet and picters
and freskies, common as dirt, as you may say. The gardings a sight
to behold. You _make_ your husband take you! Set your foot down, for
oncet!”
“What villa—did you say?”
“The Land! I don’t bother with the outlandish names. But you’ll find
it easy. Napoleon Boneypart did somethin’ or ’nother ther oncet. Or,
his son, or nephey, or some of the family. Any way, I do know I never
see sech winder-curtains anywhere. Thick as a board! Solid satin. No
linin’s, for I fingered ’em and took a peek at the wrong side to be
positive. We wound up the churches by goin’ to see the tomb the Pope’s
been a buildin’ of for himself. A kind o’ square pit, or cellar right
in the middle of the church of What’s-his-name?”
“Santa Maria Maggiore?”
“That’s the feller! You go down by two flights of stun steps. One
onto each side of the cellar. Its all open on top, you understand, on
a level with the church-floor, and jest veneered with marble. Every
color you can think of. Floor jest the same. Old Pope Griggory, he
aint buried yet. Lies ’bove-ground, in a red marble box. He can’t be
buried for good ’tell Pious, he dies. And _he_ must hev the same spell
o’ waitin’ for the next one. Ther’ must be two popes on the top of the
yearth at the same time. One live and one dead. Thinks-I, when I looked
inter the cryp’—as they call it—jest a-blazin’ and a-dazzlin’ with red,
blue, green and yellow, and polished like a new table-knife blade.—If
_this_ aint vanity and vexation! I’d ruther hev our fam’ly lot in the
buryin’ groun’ to Meekinses Four Corners—(a real nice lot it is! With
only one stun’ as yet. ‘To my daughter Almiry Jane, Ag_éd_ six months
and six days,’) where I could be tucked up, like a lady, safe and snug.
Oncet for all and no bones about it!”
On the tenth and last day of our sojourn at the hotel, she went to see
the Pope.
“May I come inter your sittin’-room?” was her petition at evening. “I
am fairly bustin’ to tell you all about it. And if we go inter the
public parler, them Englishers will be makin’ fun behind my back. For,
you see, ther’s considerable actin’ to be done to tell it jest right.”
I took her into our _salon_, established her in an arm-chair, and was
attentive. I had seen her in her best black silk with the regulation
black lace shawl, which generally does duty as a veil, pinned to
her scanty hair. Ladies attending the Pope’s levees must dress in
black, without bonnets, the head being covered by a black veil.
When thus attired, my acquaintance had wound and hung at least half
a peck of rosaries upon her arms, “to have ’em handy for the old
cretur’s blessin’.” I was now to hear how her husband had hired at the
costumer’s the dress-coat prescribed for gentlemen.
“Come down to his heels, if you’ll believe me! He bein’ a spare man,
and by no manner of means tall. Sleeves a mile too long. Collar over
his ears. A slice of his bald head showed atop of it like a new moon!”
She stopped to laugh, we all joining in heartily.
“Mr. Smith from St. _Lewis_,—he was along and his coat was as much too
small for him as my husband’s was too big for _him_. Mr. Smith daresn’t
breathe for fear of splittin’ it down the back.”
I recollected the story of Cyrus and the two coats, and restrained the
suggestion that they might have exchanged garments.
“Eight francs an hour, they paid—one dollar ’n’ sixty cents good money,
for the use of each of the bothering machines. Well! when we was all
got up to kill as it were—(’twas some like it!) we druv’ off, two
carriage-fulls, to the Pope’s Palace—the _Vacuum_. Up the marble steps
we tugged, through five or six monstrous rooms, all precious marbled
and gilded and tapes_tried_, into a long hall, more like a town-meeting
house than a parler. Stuffed benches along the side, where we all sat
down to wait for the old man. Three mortal hours, he kept us coolin’ of
our heels after the time advertised for the levy. I _hev_ washed an’
ironed and churned and done my own housework in my day. I ain’t ashamed
to say I’d ruther do a good day’s heft at ’em all, than to pass another
sech tiresome mornin’. I don’t call it mannerly to tell people when to
come, and then not be ready. Mr. Smith, he nearly died in his tight
coat with the circulation stopped into both arms. At last, the door at
the bottom of the hall was flung open by a fellow in striped breeches,
and in _he_ come. A man in a black gownd to each side on him. He is
powerful feeble-lookin’, but I will say, aint quite so _an_cient as I’d
expected to see. He leaned upon the arm of one man. Another went ’round
the room with ’em, collectin’ of our names to give ’em to him. I forgot
to tell you that everybody dropped on their knees, the minute the
door opened and we saw who ’twas. That is, except Mr. Smith. He stood
straight up, like a brass post. He says, ‘because American citizens
hadn’t oughter bend the knee to no human man.’ _I_ say he was afraid on
account of the coat. I didn’t jest like kneelin’ myself. So, I saved my
conscience by kinder _squattin’_! So-fashion!”
I was glad “the Englishers” were not by as she “made a cheese” of her
skirts by the side of her chair, and was up again in the next breath.
“_He_ wore a white skull-cap and a long white gownd belted at the
waist. Real broadcloth ’twas. I thought, at first, ’twas opery flannel
or merino, but when he was a-talkin’ to them next me, I managed to
pinch a fold of it. ’Twas cloth—high-priced it must ’a been—soft and
solid. But after all that’s said and done, he looks like an ole woman
and a fat one. Kind face, he hez, and a sort of sweet, greasy smile
onto it the whole time. He blessed us all ’round, and said to the
Americans how fond he was of their country, and how he hoped we and
our children would come back to the True Fold. It didn’t hurt us none
to hev him say it, you know, and we hed a fair look at him while one
of the black-gowners was a-translatin’ of it. Ther’ was two sisters
of charity or abbesses or nuns, or somethin’ of that sort there,
who dropped flat onto their faces on the bare floor when he got to
them,—and kissed his slipper. White they was—the slippers, I mean—with
a gold cross worked onto them. He gave us all his hand to kiss, with
the seal-ring held up. I aint much in the habit of that sort o’ thing,
and it did go agin my stomach a _leetle_. So, I tuk his hand, this
way”—seizing mine—“and smacked my lips over it without them a-touchin’
on it.”
Again illustrating the narrative by “acting.”
“I tuk notice ’twas yellow, like old ivory, but flabby, as ’twas to
be counted upon at his time o’ life. Well, ’twas a sight to see them
charitable sisters mumblin’ and smouchin’ over the Holy Father’s hand,
and sayin’ prayers like a house a-fire, after they’d done with his
slipper and got up onto their knees; and him a-smiling like a pot of
hair-oil, and a-blessin’ on his dear daughters! One of ’em had brought
along a new white cap for him, embroidered elegant with crosses and
crowns and other rigmarees, by her own hands, most likely. When she giv
it to him, still on her knees and a-lookin’ up, worshippin’-like, he
very politely tuk off his old one and put on the new. You’d a thought
the poor thing would ’a died on that floor of delight when he nodded
at her, a smilin’ sweeter than ever, to show how well it fitted.
She’ll talk about it to her dyin’ day as the biggest thing that ever
happened to her, and never think, I presume, that he must have about
a hundred caps, given to him by other abbesses, kickin’ ’round in the
Vacuum closets. After he’d done up the row of visitors—a hundred and
odd—and blessed all the crosses, and bunches of beads, and flowers, and
artificial wreaths, and other gimcracks, and all we had on to boot, he
stopped in the middle of the room and made us a little French sermon.
Sounded neat—but, of course, I didn’t get a word of it. Then he raised
his hand and pronounced the benediction, and toddled out. He rocks
considerable in his walk, poor old man! He ain’t long for this world;
and, indeed, he hez lived as long as his best friends care to hev him.”
I have had many other descriptions of the Pope’s receptions, which
were semi-weekly in this the last year of his life. In the main, these
accounts tallied so well with the charcoal sketch furnished by my
Yankee-Western dame, that I have given it as nearly as possible as I
received it from her lips.
Victor Emmanuel had reigned in Rome six years when we were there. The
streets were clean; the police vigilant and obliging; every museum
and monastery and library was unbarred by the Deliverer of Italy.
Protestant churches were going up within the walls of the city;
Protestant service was held wherever and whenever the worshippers
willed, without the visible protection of English or American flag.
One scarcely recognized in the renovated capital the Rome of which the
travelers of ’69 had written, so full and free had been the sweep of
the tidal wave of liberty and decency. The Pope, than whom never man
had a more favorable opportunity to do all the King had accomplished,
and more, was a voluntary prisoner in his palace of a thousand rooms,
with a beggarly retinue of five hundred servants, and stables full of
useless state-coaches and horses. Whoever would see him shorn of the
beams of temporal sovereignty must bend the knee to him as spiritual
lord. Without attempting to regulate the consciences or actions of
others, we declined to make this show of allegiance. Since attendance
in the temple of Rimmon was a matter of individual option, we stayed
without—_Anglicé_—we “stopped away.”
Victor Emmanuel we saw frequently in his rides and drives about Rome,
and at various popular gatherings, such as reviews and state gala-days.
He was the homeliest and best belovèd man in his dominions. Somewhat
above medium height and thick-set, his military bearing, especially
upon horseback, barely redeemed his figure from clumsiness. The
bull-neck, indicative of the baser qualities, the story of which is
a blot upon his early life, upbore a massive head, carried in manly,
kingly fashion. His complexion was purple-red; the skin, rough in
grain, streaked with darker lines, as if blood-vessels had broken under
the surface. The firm mouth was almost buried by the moustache, heavy
and black, curling upward until the tips threatened the eyes. The nose
thick and _retroussé_, with wide nostrils, corroborated the testimony
of the neck. But, beneath the full forehead, the eyes of the master of
men and of himself shone out so expressively that to meet them was to
forget blemishes of feature and form, and to do justice to the hero of
his age—the Father of United Italy.
Prince Umberto was often his father’s companion in the carriage and on
horseback—a much handsomer man, whom all regarded with interest as the
king of the future, with no premonition that the eventful race of the
stalwart parent was so nearly run, or that the aged Pope, whose serious
illnesses were reported from week to week, would survive to send a
message of amity to the monarch’s death-bed.
The prettiest sight in Rome was one yet more familiar than that of King
and heir-apparent driving in a low carriage on the crowded Pincio,
unattended by so much as a single equerry. The Princess Margherita,
the people’s idol, took her daily airing as any lady of rank might
do, her little son at her side, accompanied by one or two ladies of
her modest court, and returning affably the salutations of those who
met or passed her. The frank confidence of the royal family in the
love of the people was with her a happy unconsciousness of possible
danger that stirred the most callous to enthusiasm of loyalty. A murmur
of blessing followed her appearance among the populace. They never
named her without endearing epithets. During the Carnival, she drove,
attended as I have described, down the middle of the Corso, wedged in
by a slow-moving line of vehicles, the people packing side-walks and
gutters up to the wheels, a storm of cheering and waving caps breaking
out along the close files as they recognized her. We were abreast of
her several times; saw her bow to this side and that, swaying with
laughter while she put up both hands to ward off the rain of bouquets
poured upon her from balcony and pavement and carriage, until her coach
was full above her lap. The small Prince of Naples, on his part, stood
up and flung flowers vigorously to left and right, shouting his delight
in the fun.
We were strolling in the grounds of the Villa Borghese, one afternoon,
when we espied the scarlet liveries of the Princess approaching along
the road. That Boy, who was _au fait_ to many tales of her sweetness
and charitable deeds, might have a better look at one who ranked, in
his imagination, with the royal heroines of fairy-tales, his father
lifted him to a seat upon the rail dividing the foot-path from the
drive. As the Princess came up, our group was the only one in the
retired spot, and Boy, staring solemnly with his great, gray eyes, at
the beautiful lady, of his own accord pulled off his Scotch cap and
made a profound obeisance from his perch upon the rail. The Princess
smiled brightly and merrily, and, after acknowledging Caput’s lifted
hat by a gracious bend of the head, leaned forward to throw a kiss at
Boy, as his especial token of favor, while her boy took off and waved
his cap with a nod of good-fellowship.
One can believe that with this trivial incident in our minds it _hurt_
us to read, eighteen months later, of the little fellow’s terror at
sight of the blood streaming from his father’s arm upon his mother’s
dress, and at the clash over his innocent head of loyal sword and
assassin’s dagger.
The change in the government of Rome is not more apparent in the
improved condition of her streets and in the enforcement of sanitary
laws unknown or uncared-for under the _ancien régime_, than in
the aspect of the ruins—her principal attraction for thousands of
tourists. The Forum Romanum described by Hawthorne and Howells as a
cow-pasture, broken by the protruding tops of buried columns, has
been carefully excavated, and the rubbish cleared away down to the
original floor of the Basilica Julia, commenced by Julius Cæsar and
completed by Augustus. The boundaries of this, which was both Law
Court and Exchange, are minutely defined in the will of Augustus, and
the measurements have been verified by classic archæologists. The
Forum, as now laid bare, is a sunken plain with steep sides, divided
into two unequal parts by a modern street crossing it. Under this
elevated causeway, one passes through an arch of substantial masonry
from the larger division—containing the Comitium, Basilica Julia,
Temple of Castor and Pollux, site of Temple of Vesta and the column of
Phocas—Byron’s “nameless column with the buried base,” now exposed down
to the lettered pedestal—into the smaller enclosure, flanked by the
Tabularium on which is built the modern Capitol. On a level with the
Etruscan foundation-stones of this are the sites of the Tribune and the
Rostrum—fragments of colored marble pavement on which Cicero stood when
declaiming against Catiline, eight majestic pillars, the remains of the
Temple of Saturn, three that were a part of the Temple of Vespasian,
and the arch of Septimius Severus. Upon the front of the latter is
still seen the significant erasure made by Caracalla, of his brother
Geta’s name, after the latter had fallen by his—Caracalla’s—hand. Near
the mighty arch is a conical heap of earth and masonry, which was the
Golden Milestone, the centre of Rome and of the world.
There were not many days in the course of that idyllic winter that
did not see some of us in the Forum. We haunted it early and late;
alighting for a few minutes, _en route_ for other places, to run down
the slight wooden stair leading from the street-level, to verify to our
complete satisfaction some locality about which we had read or heard,
or studied since yesterday’s visit. Or coming, with books and children,
when the Tramontana was blowing up and down every street in the city,
and we could find no other nook so sheltered and warm as the lee of
the wall where once ran the row of butchers’ stalls, from one of which
Virginius snatched the knife to slay his daughter. My favorite seat was
upon the site of the diminutive Temple of Julius Cæsar (_Divus Julius_)
the first reared in Rome in honor of a mortal. The remnants of the
green-and-white pavement show where lay the body of great Cæsar when
Mark Antony delivered his funeral oration, and where Tiberius performed
the like pious office over the bier of Augustus.
The Via Sacra turns at this point, losing itself in one direction in
the bank, which is the limit of the excavation, winding in the other
through the centre of the exposed Forum, up to the Capitol foundations.
Horace was here persecuted by the bore whose portrait is as true to
life now as it was then. Dux read the complaint aloud to us once, with
telling effect, substituting “Broadway” for the ancient name. Cicero
sauntered along this fashionable promenade as a young man waiting
for clients; trod these very stones with the assured step of the
successful advocate and famous orator, and upon them dripped the blood
from his severed hand and head, and the tongue pierced by Fulvia’s
bodkin. Beyond the transversing modern street is a mound, once a
judgment-seat. There Brutus sat, his face an iron mask, while his sons
were scourged and beheaded before his eyes. In the Comitium was the
renowned statue of the she-wolf, now in the Capitoline Museum, which
was struck by lightning at the moment of Cæsar’s murder in Pompey’s
Theatre. Cæsar passed by this way on the Ides of March from his house
over there—the Regia—where were enacted the mysteries of the Bona
Dea when Pompeia, Calphurnia’s predecessor, admitted Clodius to the
forbidden rites. The soothsayer who cried out to him may have loitered
in waiting by the hillock, which is all that is left of Vesta’s Fane,
where were kept the sacred geese.
Boy knew each site and meant no disrespect to the “potent, grave,
and reverend” heroes who used to pace the ancient street, while
entertaining himself by skipping back and forth its entire length so
far as it is uncovered, “telling himself a story.” He was always happy
when thus allowed to run and murmur, a trick begun by the time he could
walk. Content in this knowledge, the Invaluable sat upon the steps of
the Basilica Julia, knitting in hand, guarding a square aperture near
the Temple of Castor and Pollux, the one danger (to Boy) in the Forum.
For, looking into it, one saw the rush of foul waters below hurrying
to discharge themselves through the Cloaca Maxima—built by Numa
Pompilius—into the Tiber. Here, it is said, yawned the gulf into which
Curtius leaped, armed and mounted.
“A quagmire, drained and filled up by an enterprising street contractor
of that name,” says Caput, to whom this and a score of other treasured
tales of those nebulously olden times are myths with a meaning.
While I rested apart in my sunny corner, and watched the august wraiths
trooping past, or pretended to read with eyes that did not see the
book on my knees, Boy’s “story-telling” drifted over to me in rhymical
ripples:
“On rode they to the Forum,
While laurel-wreaths and flowers
From house-tops and from windows
Fell on their crests in showers.
When they drew nigh to Vesta,
They vaulted down amain,
And washed their horses in the well
That springs by Vesta’s fane.”...
Or—
“And they made a molten image,
And set it up on high,
And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.
It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see—
Horatius in his harness
Halting upon one knee.”
“Where is it now, Mamma? And Horatius? and the Great Twin Brethren—and
the rest of them?”
“Are gone, my darling!”