ROME.
I came, I saw, and I--was conquered. For once I prefer the old to the
new, and Rome has exorcised the evil spirit that has taken up its
residence within me. I came into Rome from Florence on a day that would
have passed without attracting attention in Camden Town, Nunhead, or
even the Seven Dials. The rain was pouring in torrents, the streets were
rivers, and in the filthy byways, much affected by coachmen as
short-cuts, the stucco was peeling from tumble-down tenements, and all
was dirt and darkness and desolation. I have come into a good many
Continental cities, in the course of a long and virtuous life, depressed
and dyspeptic and disappointed, but I have never been made so utterly
miserable by anything as by my first introduction to Rome. I jumped at
once to the conclusion that travellers and guide-books had grossly
deceived me, and that the famous capital of the Roman Catholic faith and
United Italy had been made, like Somebody’s pills and ointment, by
persistent advertisement.
But with the morrow came the sun; the nightmare was over, and a pleasant
dream had begun. Pagan Rome had made me--yea, even me, my brother--a
little more respectful in my attitude towards antiquity. I came to
scoff, and I remained to pray. I have been in the Forum, and when I sat
on the great columns I tried to remember my Roman history, and muddled
up the Cæsars, and wished that I had paid more attention to my books at
school instead of making surreptitious catapults with the elastic I
pulled out of my new spring-side boots. I have roamed--should I say
Romed?--up the Appian Way, and lost myself in the mighty Baths of
Caracalla; I have been down into the Catacombs and seen the bones of
some Early Christians, and I have dreamed dreams, and wandered about in
fancy in a toga, and given off Latin orations to the winds, and have
only been aroused from my reverie by the voice of a fair creature
inquiring, with the choicest American accent, if it was in the Forum
that Julius Cæsar used to fight with wild beasts and play the fiddle
while Rome was burning.
But all the ancient glories, so far as I am concerned, sink into
insignificance beside the Colosseum. In this, the mighty ruin of the
greatest arena the world has ever seen, the most ordinary mind--mine,
for instance--loses itself. The present fades away; the guardian who
follows you to see that you do not put stone and marble pillars in your
pocket is lost sight of. You are back again in the year 72 A.D. You hear
the cruel whips of their masters cracking merrily over the 12,000 Jewish
captives who laid the first stones of the Colosseum, and in the year 80
it is complete, and Titus dedicates it, and the great arena is soaked
with the blood of 5,000 wild beasts. The years go on, and human blood
alone can satisfy the cruel thirst of the Romans. Over the seats and
benches, now mouldering ruins, you see a mighty populace swarming. In
the vast arena, where your modern foot, clad in a buttoned kid boot, now
stands, thousands of gladiators, their huge muscles standing out like
iron bars, fight, and dye the ground with their gore. The fiercest
beasts stand at bay, with trembling captured slaves, and the nobles and
the people--ay, even the women--shriek with delight as quivering flesh
is torn, and the life-blood of man and brute spirts out in crimson jets.
You can see it all, if you have a spark of imagination--the whole
bloody, revolting scene becomes so real that at last you turn away and
hide your eyes, and cry ‘Faugh!'--come to your senses, and thank Heaven
that such cruel days are over for ever.
And outside, even as you are expressing your gratitude, you will see a
long line of weary, wretched animals dragging their heavy loads, while
behind them walks a Roman of to-day lashing their quivering, bleeding
sides with brutal fury, even goading their poor starved carcases to
further effort by thrusting a sharp stick into their open wounds. I can
imagine what the Roman horses and mules and oxen would say if they heard
anyone rejoicing that cruelty died out with the Pagans and the decay of
the Colosseum. I have seen such cruelty to animals under the shadow of
St. Peter’s that I doubt if the Colosseum ever saw worse. Beasts had at
least a speedy death there. It is reserved for the modern citizen of
Christian Rome to make a dumb brute’s torture last its whole life long.
A Roman is very proud of being a Roman, and he does nothing menial. The
fly-drivers are Romans, but they do not groom or attend to their horses.
They have Neapolitans to do that. There is a good deal of the old
dignity still surviving among the people. At a Roman pastrycook’s a
Roman waiter brings me an ice with the air of an emperor. An emperor
would have done it more quickly, though, as his time would doubtless
have been valuable. A Roman is always wrapping himself in an imaginary
toga, and that dress is a much better one to pose in than to bustle
about in and perform the vulgar task known as earning one’s daily bread.
Anyone who travels must be struck with the extraordinary way in which
the same waiters turn up all over the world. The man who spreads my
humble repast of polenta and dried figs in the Hôtel Londra, in Rome,
last waited upon me at the hotel at Seaford, in Sussex, a pleasant
hamlet, which generally consists of six inhabitants, two visitors, and a
pedestrian passing through from Newhaven. In Milan my waiter reminded me
that he had often had the honour of waiting upon me at the St. Enoch’s
Hotel, at Glasgow, and in a restaurant in Florence I was recognised with
a broad grin by the former oberkellner of a pleasant hostelry upon the
Rhine, where I sojourned in ’78. Most travellers can multiply instances
of this sort of thing, but it is just a little wonderful to meet in Rome
your old garçon of sleepy little Seaford, in Sussex.
More wonderful still! I have just been into a coiffeur’s in the Via
Condotti to be shaved, and the young gentleman officiating, after
lathering me, said in the most unconcerned way possible: ‘Let me see, I
thinks that you like him a razor fine, if right I remembers?’ I stared
at the man in astonishment, and stammered: ‘Do you know me, then?’ ‘Ah,
sare,’ was the reply, ‘I shave you often last year, at the Toilet Club,
Brighton. No you remember?’ The world is decidedly small. I am looking
about Rome now with some hope of coming upon the cabman to whom I gave a
sovereign instead of a shilling in the Old Kent Road in the summer of
’81. I really don’t see why he shouldn’t come round the corner
accidentally.
Rome has just recovered from the incursion of the pilgrims to the tomb
of Victor Emmanuel, and Society is returning to the capital. The
‘pilgrimage’ business scared many people from the city, for there was a
good deal of wild talk about riots and I know not what. You see, this
pilgrimage has been an organized Government affair, got up entirely for
political purposes. The vast horde of folks who flocked from all parts
of Italy came, not to show their attachment and devotion to monarchical
institutions, but to see Rome and enjoy themselves. The railway
companies brought ‘pilgrims’ at a reduction of 75 per cent. on the
regular fares.
Although nothing has appeared in the papers, it is common talk in Rome
that one train-load was stoned by the mob, and in several places this
‘loyal’ demonstration was hissed and hooted. Italy teems with dissension
and discontent, and how fully the Government is aware of the fact is
best proved by the enormous pains that have been taken to organize and
carry out this solemn farce of a national pilgrimage to the tomb of the
late King.
It is fair to say that this view of the pilgrimage is taken only in
clerical and Republican circles. I am assured by many Italians that it
has really been a great success, from a political point of view. There
is no doubt that the ‘merry jests of King Victor Emmanuel’ endeared him
to a large number of his subjects, and the stories that are being told
of him now would fill a book.
The stories of his hobnobbing with peasants and boors, and finding his
pleasure in bourgeois life, have caused the old canard to be revived
about his identity. My waiter in Rome imparted it to me confidentially
one morning while I was struggling to eat some _gnocchis à la Romaine_
without injuring all that is left of my liver for life. I will give it
as I received it:
‘Wunst was a fire--big fire, while Vittor Emanuele he was baby in de
palace. Real royal baby he was burn to death. To prevent being found
out what happen, de nurse she put her baby in de place of other, and
nobody not find out, so Victor Emanuele he really was one of de people,
and dat was what make him so fond of sit in beerhouse and eat sausage
and bread with a big knife.’
There is a big movement afoot in Rome to revive the Barberi races in the
Corso. The Corso, as all my readers are aware, is a long, narrow street
in the fashionable quarter of Rome, and the Barberi are poor horses who
are let loose at the top with spiked balls fastened to their sides,
which goad them almost to madness, and make them fly like the wind. Last
year the cruel sport was abandoned, owing to its having caused a
terrible accident just under the Queen’s balcony the previous year. This
time, however, there is a great outcry for a revival, and the chief
sinners are not the cruel Romans, but the humane English and American
visitors and residents.
As in these days of extended travel everyone goes to Rome, I should like
to say a word about the nonsense that is talked about the unhealthiness
of the climate and the danger of malaria. ‘Roman fever’ is a bogey which
frightens hundreds of good folk from enjoying one of the greatest treats
the world can give. There is very little danger to people who live
carefully and don’t rush. If people will go to Rome in the blazing heat
of summer, and gallop about from place to place like madmen, now
sweltering in the sun, and now burrowing into the icy depths of a ruined
temple, or wandering in the cold galleries of a church, chills will
follow, and fever may ensue; but in nine cases out of ten fear is the
great cause of the illness of English travellers.
The Roman water, again, which some folks warn you not to drink, is the
purest water in the whole wide world, and there is a supply, brought
through the restoration of some of the classical aqueducts a distance
of thirty-six miles, which is equal to 300 gallons per day for each
inhabitant, and this is flowing day and night uninterruptedly. London
Water Companies please note.
There is one thing which makes Rome unendurable to nervous, excitable
people, and which, combined with the sirocco, has driven me away. To be
harassed and tortured at every turn is death to a rheumatic, dyspeptic,
quiet-seeking man whose nerves are champion jumpers. To show what I
mean, I will exactly reproduce my last walk in Rome. I have read Mr.
Hare’s ‘Walks in Rome,’ but mine is the walk of a Hunted Hare.
A WALK IN ROME.
(_Enter a Rheumatic and Dyspeptic_ ENGLISHMAN _from a Hotel on the
Piazza di Spagna. Fifty single and double horse flys instantly rush
at him._)
ENGLISHMAN (_leaping wildly in the air_). No, no; I’m going for a walk!
(_Flys retire slowly, dropping off one by one as_ ENGLISHMAN
_continues to dodge under the horses’ heads, to weep and wail, and
beg to be allowed to go for a walk_.)
(_Enter a Man with Laces, a Man with Coral, and a Man with Views of
Rome._)
MEN (_surrounding Englishman_). Volete! Volete!
ENGLISHMAN. No, no; I don’t want anything. Let me pass. I’m going for a
quiet walk to calm my nerves.
(_After a quarter of an hour’s race distances the three men, and
stops and mops his brow._)
ENGLISHMAN. At last! Now for a quiet stroll and a little calm
meditation.
(_Enter an omnibus_ R. _and a waggon_ L.--_there are no raised
pavements in Roman side streets--both coming full speed_.)
DRIVERS (_shouting_). He! Ho!
ENGLISHMAN. Oh dear! I shall be crushed. Where can I go? Oh dear!
(_Climbs up a waterspout on to the sill of a first-floor window,
and escapes with the loss of his boots, which the waggon draws
off._)
ENGLISHMAN (_coming down_). Dear me! the stone is very cold to one’s
feet without one’s boots. Never mind; now for a nice saunter.
(_Enter Flower-sellers--Mother, Father, and Four Children. They
surround_ ENGLISHMAN _and offer flowers_.)
ENGLISHMAN. No. Oh, do go away, please! I have left my purse at home.
(_Family stick flowers in_ ENGLISHMAN’S _buttonhole. He flings them
back. They throw them on his hat. He shakes them off. They put
pansies in his pockets and roses down the back of his neck--fact!
He shakes himself free and flies._)
ENGLISHMAN. Phew! The sirocco is blowing, and I’m all in a perspiration.
Let me enter this cool church a moment and rest in a pew.
(_Chorus of beggars at church door, holding out withered hands,
half noses, wrapped up in paper, mangled legs, etc._: ‘Io muojo di
fame! Date mi une soldo!')
ENGLISHMAN. Die of hunger, and be hanged to you!
(_Pushes through them and enters the church._)
CUSTODIAN (_in church_). You vould like for to see pitchers an’
statchers, eh, sare? Come vid me.
ENGLISHMAN. No; I’m going to rest a minute. Go away.
(_Enter Two_ CICERONI.)
FIRST CICERONE (_in French_). Take you over the church, sir? Show you
some funny things.
SECOND CICERONE (_in Italian_). Come with me, sir; I understand the
antiquities.
ENGLISHMAN. No, no, no!
(_Kneels and prays to Heaven to be left alone one moment._ CICERONI
_pursue him. He exits shrieking, rushes back to his hotel in a high
fever, barricades himself in his room, and, drawing a revolver,
threatens to shoot the first person who disturbs him._)
(_Enter Two Sisters of Mercy to beg for the poor._)
ENGLISHMAN. What! cannot I even have a minute to myself in my own room?
(_Shoots himself._) Now I’m dead perhaps I shall have five minutes!
(_Enter a Dozen Men masked, who seize_ ENGLISHMAN.)
ENGLISHMAN. Here! leave me alone; I’m dead.
MASKED MEN. All right, but you must be removed at once. You’ve got to be
underground by to-morrow in Rome, you know.
ENGLISHMAN. Oh, hang this! I’m off, then!
(_Rushes to railway-station, has a fight with fifty porters, who
struggle to carry his umbrella and his overcoat for him, leaps into
a train, and departs for England._)
DOCTOR IN ENGLAND (_feeling Englishman’s pulse_). Why, you’re in a
raging fever, and your nerves are overwrought, and you’re quite
delirious!
ENGLISHMAN. Yes, doctor. I unfortunately went out for a Quiet Walk in
Rome!
One thing that has surprised me more than any other in a land of so much
art as Italy is the striking mock modesty which has ruthlessly
disfigured the statuary in the galleries and churches. The suggestion of
putting the legs of a table into drawers is only paralleled by what one
sees in the Uffizzi and Pitti galleries of Florence, and in St. Peter’s
at Rome. In the latter, a marble figure is actually adorned with a
ridiculous zinc petticoat. The force of the ridiculous can only go a
step farther, and put Achilles into trousers, and the Gladiator into a
Highland kilt. A hundred years hence the Venus de Medici may have to be
studied through a _robe de chambre_, and Hercules in an ulster and
chimneypot hat may be the last contribution to the adaptation of ancient
art to modern views.
What we shall do with the pictures I don’t know. Many of them are quite
as undraped as the statues, and several are absolutely indecent if we
are to take the figures as modern ladies and gentlemen, living under the
police regulations of the nineteenth century. One might just as well
paint petticoats on to the females of Rubens as give zinc
bathing-drawers to the _chefs d'œuvre_ of Michael Angelo and Canova.
There is one picture which was very objectionable to an elderly English
lady in the Uffizzi. It is a charmingly-executed figure of Venus
performing a kindly office for Cupid with a smalltooth-comb. I suppose
by-and-by the comb will be painted out, and Venus will be supplied with
a piece of flannel and some soft soap.
I am sorry to say that I have had to leave Rome without the honour of an
audience of the Pope. I have seen the King and the Queen and the Prince
of Naples, for they all three drive about daily without the slightest
escort, and we--that is, I and the Romans--just bow and smile and murmur
‘How d’ye do?’ and pass on. We mix so freely with the Royal Family--I
and the Romans--that we get quite friendly, and find ourselves saying
‘Fine day, isn’t it?’ to the King as we pass him in the Corso; and the
King, taken off his guard, says, ‘Very; but I don’t think it will last.’
But with the Pope it is different. He is the prisoner of the Vatican,
and comes no more forth. Privileged persons, however, now and again he
receives, and I had every reason to expect an invitation to attend at
the Vatican, when I was compelled to leave Rome and go further north. I
had, however, every opportunity afforded me of seeing all that the
Vatican contains, and cannot let this opportunity pass of expressing my
gratitude to his Holiness’s Private Chamberlain, the Cavaliere Cassell,
who procured me every privilege.
I know how interested ladies are in all that concerns housekeeping, for
many are the charming letters which reach me on the troubles and
torments of the modern domestic interior. For their private perusal,
therefore, let me make a note of a custom which prevails largely in
Italy, and which, I think, would do away with a great trouble and
annoyance from which all unfortunate individuals who do not live in
hotels or dine at clubs continuously suffer. In some parts of Italy,
when you engage your cook or _chef_, you simply say to him: ‘There are
ten of us in family. For breakfast we like so and so; for dinner so and
so. How much?’ Thereupon the cook thinks it over, and he reckons it up,
and presently he says: ‘Sir’ (or madam), ‘I will keep your family for so
many francs a month.’
The bargain is struck, and you have no further housekeeping worries at
all. The _chef_ buys everything; he has contracted to cook for you, and
to supply all you require.
If his dinners are not good enough, or if you think his contract is too
high for what he is giving you, you send for him, and you say: ‘I cannot
afford to pay so much; you must keep my family for less.’ If you are
overpaying, the cook will accept a reduction. If you are not, he will
say: ‘Very well, madam, then I must leave, as any reduction would leave
me no margin of profit.’ Then you know that your _nourriture_ is being
supplied at a reasonable rate, and you allow the contract to stand or
not as you think fit.
Now, just think what a lot of trouble this will do away with. No more
bother with butchers and bakers and grocers, no more journeyings to and
fro to co-operative stores. The good housewife has nothing to do but
play with her children and read the latest of Mr. Mudie’s three-volume
frivolities. All the cares of housekeeping are gone. I intend to try the
plan directly I return. Only, as I am not rich enough to afford a
_chef_, and shall have to rely upon a female, I shall watch her very
closely when she goes out on Sunday. If, after she has contracted for me
for three months, I find her going out with six ostrich feathers in her
hat and a diamond ring outside her gloves, and hailing a hansom at the
corner to drive her to the Café Royal where she is going to entertain a
few Lifeguardsmen and some lady friends at dinner, I shall begin to
think that the contract will bear reconsideration and a little
reduction.
‘Comfort’ does not enter very largely into consideration, except at the
great national theatres to which foreigners as well as natives flock. In
Rome it is usual to give two representations, one at half-past five, and
the second at half-past nine. I went one evening to the ‘Metastasio.’ At
a quarter to ten I had the house to myself. I groped my way up a dark
passage, and found a woman asleep on a bench. I showed her my ticket,
and she shouted, ‘Hercules! Hercules!’ Presently a little lame dwarf
answered to the name if not to the description, and unlocked the box. It
was a dingy hole, with a bare brick floor, and contained two
rush-bottomed chairs. ‘Hercules’ handed me a cushion to put on the
chair, and for this I paid ‘by the tariff’ half a franc. Presently the
house filled. In the box next me a Roman lady administered its natural
sustenance to her baby. All around the men smoked the local cigar. The
performance was fairly good. The costumes in one act were suggestively
indecent, and the scenery ridiculously wretched. The stage footman
walked about all through the acting, and cleared the stage frequently
for the next scene while the hero and heroine were in possession of the
boards. There was a real rain scene, which so delighted the audience
that they had it all over again, and, as usual, the prompter steadily
read the play aloud from end to end.