Paris banker. I have it, and it came “on time,” good time, not loitering
by the way or flying off at a tangent. The one point I object to is the
soft rebuke to me for not having specified an address. I had given you
all that I expected to. It is too much of a risk to change my address
with the changes of place of such a vagrant. _Now_, stick to H. & Co.,
etc., till I write you to do otherwise. You will be a sharp, yes,
pre-destinated fault-finder if you can hook a grumble on that. I defy
you. Thanks for your appreciation of the letter! I am sure I did not
mean anything so extraordinary. You say so many pleasant things, I
cannot ignore them, as is my wont. I hope you are like Lady Geraldine,
who
“Said such good things natural,
As if she always thought them.”
Anyhow, it is wonderfully exhilarating to feel I have put out the
Bermuda burner. Her scintillations were vastly oppressive.
I have recently been reveling in Guercino’s fresco of Aurora, widely
different from Guido’s famous one, but I think I like it quite as much.
Aurora herself is the central figure, a lovely, radiant creature
embodying all the glimmer, glow and glamor of the dawn, seated in her
car drawn by two splendid steeds, mottled with the dusk they were
scattering and the light they were heralding. She was dropping flowers
as she sped onward; a lovely cherub hovered in the air before stretching
chaplets of exquisite flowers toward her; another, nestling in the
cloudy folds of her drapery behind, looked over the edge of the car
right into my eyes with his that seemed just as living. Do not tell on
me; but I make rosebuds of my lips at him every time we catch each
other’s eyes, and he seems to enjoy the pantomine. Just in front of the
horses’ heads, the earliest hours, bewitching young maidens, are putting
out the stars, each with extended forefinger and thumb, flashing lightly
up to the pretty sparks. It looks the most fascinating “task to do.” You
cannot help feeling a quiver in your own fingers to try it. Away ahead
of all a bat is flying from the coming light. You think in a flash of
that beautiful song:
“Come into the garden, Maud,
The black bat, Night, is fled.”
And now the quiver in my finger is gone:
I have put out that transcendant Star that made a “vexed Bermoothes” of
_me_!
And I hope Guercino’s manes will take no offense at this association of
ideas!
Ah! this imperial Rome--this unapproachable queen of the earth--every
day I am more and more overcome by “the toils of her beauty” and
enchantments. The magic of yesterday is lost in that of to-day; and for
that of to-morrow I shall be dumb, having no words to express it. I
wonder how anyone can ever get free from her wonderful fetters forged of
everything that adds charm to life. From the deep blue of its sky, the
crystalline dazzle of its atmosphere, the unutterable fusion “of all the
hues of all the earth,” and the varied outline of hill and vale and
mount and wide-spread campagna--all this, just the mere outside, the
physical Rome, to her treasures of myths, history, etc., everything you
know, why attempt to enumerate? She is in everything--“Mistress of the
World.” I, for one, am her willingest, lealest, lovingest subject or
slave, as you will. It seems to me at times as if of all I have ever
known there is nothing very worthy that has not some associations with
her. Living within her walls brings out all that was written long ago on
the memory, but grown from the lapse of time and the swift succession of
experiences into an “invisible writing,” as it were. Yes, brings it out
just as heat will bring that out. At every turn there is a great name,
or some great monument of the mighty dead, and as you pause to look you
ponder and remember what made the name great, who built the great
monument, who indeed were the mighty dead! Sometimes you know so much it
is a kind of intoxicating joy. Oh! yes; many times--most times of
course, you know so little.
Do not think of being afraid or ashamed of admitting that. And then such
a hunger and thirst as takes possession of you for knowledge, more
knowledge, and yet more and more. The hunger and thirst of one perishing
in the desert can but faintly shadow this forth. You think of that
wonder-story of Eve, and the condemnation of her that has been a
birth-right and grown with your orthodox growth, insensibly softens into
sympathy. Presently you will find yourself admitting you too might
have--yes, would have eaten that apple! For it meant--knowledge, more
knowledge! I--I--am shocking you. Well, come thou also, and see if it be
possible not to rave--
* * * * *
Are you in the mood for a tramp? Come, let’s be off. There is an old
church--_S. Onofrio_, on the slope of the Janiculus we ought to see. It
is off to the west, no great distance from St. Peter’s. The _Salita_ (or
ascent) is steep. It is a warm, relaxing day--do not go too fast; you
will get into a perspiration if you do, and then you will have to take
care of a breeze or a draught, and maybe catch cold, after all. Best not
hurry. What is there up there, anyhow? _Why_--ever so many things you
would not miss for--anything. The quaintest old structure dating from
1439--ahead of America! and built in honor of Honophrius, whose story is
disgusting to me; but let that go. Here is what I like better. Tasso
lived there--I do not know how long--and died there. The whole place is
far more full of, and fragrant with, his memory than that of the saint.
The chapel in which he is buried has an immense affair in the way of a
monument. It is not considered a work of “high art,” so we shall not
linger.
Here in a chapel beside his is the tomb of Mezzofanti, the linguist; a
simple slab in the floor, with the name and dates. I like it. Somehow I
am in such a fever to go on. I do not care much for the pictures, though
some have great names. Here--through this corridor. It leads to the
“cell” which Tasso occupied and in which he died. The custodian opens
the door. I step in first, and involuntarily step back. Facing me is a
full-length fresco portrait of the poet on the wall, so life-like, for
the moment the illusion is complete. In the center of the room is his
bust. It was taken from the cast of his face in death; it is in a glass
case. On the wall behind is another glass case, in which is an autograph
letter, much tattered and torn and yellow with age. There are also his
gloves, belt, etc. Ranged against the wall and protected by a railing
are some large, square, leather-covered chairs, in frames of oak or
walnut, with gold-gilt ornamentation. On another side, also in a large
glass cabinet, is the coffin in which he was first interred. The “cell”
itself is a good-sized room, with three windows, two commanding fine,
extensive views. There is a garden attached, with a riven oak, the
remains of that under which Tasso used to sit. We must go and sit there
too. The walk lies between large beds of growing vegetables. You see
ahead your goal--a sharp little rise, from the side of which, half-way
up, leans out remains of the tree. On one side is an old wall, rather a
fragment; on the other, some steep, high steps, up which you know you
will have to toil “for the view.” Almost in a breath you are doing it,
and--ugh! at every step a swarm of glancing lizards! I cry: “Look out
for the lizards!” A lady ahead of me, already at the top, seated on a
part of the wall, says coolly, if encouragingly: “You know they are
harmless. Why are you afraid?” I protest: “I am not afraid; but a lady
carried one home with her yesterday in the folds of her skirts, and it
was there ever so long, I know. I don’t wish the experience of a lizard
for a vade mecum.” So I gather my skirts close and above my boot-tops,
and do not miss the view indeed; but neither do I those legions in their
brilliant uniform of green spotted with gold. And the view! St. Peter’s
on the left, still farther west; the city to the east, with its
innumerable domes and spires; and far beyond, the beautiful mountains,
some of their tops lost in the blue mist; and overhead, the broad arms
of the oak, with their budding sprays. The warm air makes you feel a
curious languor. You too sit down, feeling as if you were swooning into
that noontide. Only a moment, though--those lizards!
It is time to go. You make the circuit of the gnarled roots; try to
break off a bit of the riven edges, to find them as hard as adamant;
look up and sigh to find the leaves quite beyond reach; then turn away
for good and all. After a step or so, you find you are still clutching
at your skirts! And as you reach the walk again, the other lady looks
back and says meekly and deprecatingly, “I feel as if I had a thousand
lizards on me.” One can forgive the answering peal of laughter; it is
meriment only, not triumph. Then both gave wings to their feet! Can
_you_ keep up? I lay a wager you think you can!
Then another _prowl_. Do you not want to see that statue of Pompey, “at
whose base Great Caesar fell?” I have thought of it and of “Great
Caesar” many times. Indeed, it is one of the first thoughts when one
sees the forum. The statue is in the Palazzo Spada; is in an immense
ante-room. It needs to be, so
[Illustration: Quirinal, Rome.]
colossal is the statue. The workmanship is not considered very fine, but
a strong interest must always attach to it on account of the
association. The Palazzo is well situated, but it is near the Jew
quarter called the Ghetto, and which is one of the characteristic
sights. The street is narrow and tortuous, winding between houses six
and seven stories high. The dwellers live literally out-doors, for even
if inside the house, it is all wide open. The women are sitting, plying
their various avocations, all seeming to be made up in some way of old,
filthy clothes. The men are roving about just as busily. The children
are at play so thick, there is some discretion required to enable one to
thread his way without stepping on them. All are unkempt, unwashed,
unattractive. Both smells and looks are revolting. Curiosity is soon
satisfied. We hurry. Just ahead of us is the house of Rienzi, and near
by a pretty little ruined temple called that of Vesta; these are on the
bank of the Tiber, and just at the foot, as it were, of the Palatine.
Further on is the Protestant cemetery, where are buried Keats and the
_heart_ of Shelley. I have been to both. Fresh flowers were lying on the
slab over the latter, while the grave of Keats was a mass of sweet
violets. There is a neat hedge around it, and everything betokens kindly
and constant care. Poor fellow! His name is _not_ written in water. Oh!
but I must break off. There is no end to all I wish I could tell you. I
sympathize with you in the loss of that lovely woman, Mrs. D----. Such a
frail, tender life; the wonder is it has lasted so long. I had heard
something of what you mention. Believe
“It is better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”
Yes, the added verse is an immortality. May I indeed be there to hear,
and all our “beautiful beloved” who have gone before. You did not
mention our dear one, Miss B----. Do you know anything about her? I have
had no letter since I wrote to you, but so many of my letters do not
reach me, I attach no blame to her, only I wish so much to hear. And
will you make the race for governor? If so, I will put up special
prayers for your election. Then if you are elected, you will invite us
two to visit you in that castle made without hands. Won’t you, please.
Thanking you for all your kindly expressions and injunctions.
L. G. C.
Rome, April 24, 1883.
ROME.
In Rome still, but this is my last week. Were I to write many books, I
could not get in the half of these wonder days in this queen city of the
world. Yes, crowned so long ago, she still wears her royal diadem, and
will wear it even as the old lines have it:
“While Rome stands, the world stands!”
I have made the rounds of the churches, that of the galleries and
museums, that of the villas and palaces, and finally that of the--shops.
Take notice, that of the studios, is omitted; not because it was not
made, but because it was confined to four. Such a four, though! One can
hardly realize any were left out. Be sure they will come in for ample
mention. Will it seem sacrilegious to admit several hours of one
afternoon were devoted to the Lateran, and the rest to watching the
queen and “lesser mortals” coming home from the races? Life is a very
mixed sort of affair here--“Motley’s the wear,” indeed, and there’s
nothing to be done but “Being in Rome to do as Romans do.” The only
saving clause is I did not hurry through the church because of the
carnival ahead.
I began with the Piazza di San Giovanni and its great obelisk--“the
largest in existence,” erected some fifteen hundred years ago by an
Egyptian king in front of the Temple of the Sun, at Thebes. I felt that
it had strayed “far away from its native heath.” This is one of eleven
obelisks brought from far eastern climes to grace this imperial city.
The conqueror has a right to his spoils, I suppose, or this might be
called vandalism. In the Baptistery, I saw the font of green basalt in
which tradition says Constantine was baptized; and in its several
chapels, Mosaic frescoes dating as far back as the Fifth century. They
were more curious than beautiful, the figures representing Christ,
apostles and saints, being decidedly of a caricature order. But
one--flowers and birds on a gold ground, and another--golden arabesques
on a blue ground--were more successful, indeed beyond criticism. I
lingered long at the foot of Santa Scala, “that flight of twenty-eight
marble steps from the palace of Pilate at Jerusalem, which Christ is
said to have ascended once,” and which are now set aside for the devout
to ascend on their knees only. Many were doing it as I watched--men,
women and children; old and young; rich and poor. To the looker-on it
would seem rather an acrobatic feat, than an act of devotion.
At five o’clock, we took our station on the wayside, one of a “jam” of
carriages to wait for the coming of the royal cortege! In the intervals
of waiting, I amused myself pointing out the coroneted equipages; they
clustered around, their occupants apparently quite as eager as we to see
the spectacle. Presently the chatter was hushed; eye-glasses of all
kinds were adjusted; everybody’s gaze was on the Porta San Giovanni; a
flash of scarlet shot through its arch; the jockey who always precedes
the queen’s carriage, itself with its four steeds, most richly
caparisoned--the coachman and two footmen in the brilliant scarlet
uniform of the queen; and inside, the beautiful, gracious, happy-looking
Marguerite, a queen indeed, if looks and bearing count! She bowed so
queenly, and smiled so womanly, right and left, I no longer wonder that
her subjects worship her. A number of gorgeous equipages followed; the
pageant swept on, and the chill dusk hurried us home.
Another church was the quaint old building of St. Onofrio, on the
Janiculus. It was reared to commemorate the piety of that saint, shown
by a life of sixty years’ hermitage in the desert, reducing himself to
the level of the brute creation. I confess my pilgrimage to his shrine
was not from sympathy with any such idea of piety. Nor has it much in
the way of art. Three frescoes by Domenichino, and one fresco, faded and
injured by retouching, by Leonardo da Vinci, are all worth speaking of.
But Tasso is buried there, and the cell he occupied is shown, full of
souvenirs of him. It is a large room, with three windows, and commands
some fine views. The souvenirs are a fresco portrait of him, life-size
and most startlingly life-like; a bust in wax, autograph letters,
chairs, etc. There is a garden attached, in which is an oak under which
he used to sit. The view from that “coigne de vantage” is lovely. I
seated myself where he might have sat to enjoy it. But--you have read
about the pretty, glancing, green and gold lizards of Italy! Well, it
seemed to me there was one at least to every blade of grass, to every
twig, where anything could glide or dangle. A lady had carried one home
with her the day before in the folds of her dress. I was not very
ambitious to follow her example, so, perhaps very ingloriously, I
decamped without delay.
There is a set of churches, three in number, called “The Three Churches
of the Aventine,” from their being situated on that hill. Each has
something of special interest, but I shall tell of only one, that of St.
Sabrina. It contains Sassoferrato’s masterpiece, the “Madonna of the
Rosary,” a really beautiful and interesting picture of this
inexhaustible subject. The Madonna is giving a rosary to St. Dominicus,
and the Christ-child another to St. Catherine; the latter with a
childlike delight and benevolence in the giving, most admirably
rendered. On the pillar in the nave is a good-sized black bowlder, with
the legend attached that it was hurled by the devil at St. Dominicus
when at prayer; such was his fury at this pious act. The flagstone on
which the saint was kneeling was also shown. It has been removed from
the floor and built into the wall. There is an orange tree in the
garden, still vigorous and beautiful, planted by St. Dominicus. The good
brothers make crosses and rosaries of its wood and sell them, thus
“making an honest penny.” We bought some and took them to the pope to
be consecrated!
This prowling about old churches, hunting up celebrated pictures,
relics, legends, etc., comes to be a great fascination. As they are
counted by hundreds, one can always have a place to go. The trouble is
to make a selection. And--it is just as perplexing which to tell you
about. There is one more, though, I do not like to leave out. It is
small and not at all striking; stands beside the great Doria palace on
the Corso, and right in the way, but comparatively few enter it. The
name is St. Maria in Via Lata, and it is the church in which St. Paul
and St. Luke taught.
There are really two churches, one entered from the street and the other
beneath it, reached by descending a flight of steps. The latter is the
one where the apostles preached, and very small and humble and dark; the
custodian carried lighted tapers to insure our seeing. There were some
faded frescoes on the walls, a well, the water of which burst forth
miraculously for the baptism of converts under their preaching; and
there is a fragment of the ancient Servian wall in one end that is very
curious, with its huge blocks of stone arranged both upright and
horizontally. In the upper church is preserved that remarkable picture
of the head of Christ “begun by St. Luke and finished by an angel.” It
is kept closely shut up in a cabinet over the alter, but a silver lira
won an inspection. Faded, dingy, crude, all that can be said is that
neither of the accredited artists could have worked from especial
training or inspiration! From churches to studios--a natural transition.
What galleries the former have been, and are, for the latter.
Strolling through the Via Margutta--“the artist’s quarter”--a large
building arrested attention. On inquiring, we found, among many other
studios in it, those of our Rodgers and Ives. Applying quite
unceremoniously for admittance to the first, was accorded at once, and
the son of Mr. Rodgers advanced and received us most courteously, and
conducted us through several rooms, full of the completed works of his
father, and a number of work-rooms full of busy workmen. Among the many
admirable finished works, four particularly interested us: “The Lost
Pleiad,” “Ruth,” “Somnambulist” and “The Blind Girl of Pompeii.” Never
was the groping movement peculiar to the blind so touchingly rendered as
in that slight, girlish figure. She is pressing forward against a
strong wind, which is shown by the way her hair and skirts are blown
backward, grasping her staff, and feeling her way equally, as it were,
with it, and the sightless orbs directed so intently before her. What a
curious mastery of the “cold, insensate marble” that can make the heart
ache so!
We were equally unceremonious and fortunate in our reception at the
studio of Mr. Ives. He was just going out, but turned at once, and
accompanied us with the utmost kindness and graciousness through his
rooms. There, too, were many well-filled, and others where the workmen’s
chisels were busy. It was interesting to pause and watch the tiny chips
and threads of marble dust as made under their skillful touches, and
mark the delicate finish given thereby to lip and brow, the more tender
curve to the dainty shoulder, the more graceful sweep to the trailing
drapery. I gazed longest on a “young Bacchus,” a drooping “Ariadne,”
that half elf, half human “Undine,” and that nymph of wood, water and
wisdom, “Egeria.” The last, especially, drew me to it again and again.
It is a sitting statue inclining somewhat forward, gazing earnestly at
the right foot extending before it, and from the toes of which streams
of water are gushing. The left foot is drawn back and is resting on the
tip of the toes. There is little drapery, but the little is exquisitely
wrought. The features are of ethereal beauty; the hair is arranged in a
simple Grecian knot. She is sitting on a stump entwined with ivy; around
its roots the wild acanthus spreads its beautiful leaves. The lovely
creature! I think it will haunt me forever.
The third studio was that of an Italian artist. Besides his pictures,
the rooms were adorned with tapestries, rugs and bric-a-brac. There were
some most ingenious exhibitions of taste. In one room the light fell on
crayons on glass, most attractive pictures. Passing to another room
behind this, the light shone through these, converting them into
exquisite transparencies. It was a desire to light what would have been
otherwise a dark room, without marring the walls of the others by
introducing windows. There were some portraits on his walls, wonderful
as paintings, and carrying conviction of their faithfulness as
likenesses. One was a queenly woman, with that splendid texture of flesh
so often described by the words, “you can almost see the bones through
it,” because of its transparency, features “clean cut as a cameo,” a
warm fine glow on the cheek; elsewhere that pinkish pearl hue of youth
and health; and heavy masses and braids of the richest golden hair, with
the very glint of the burnished metal on it. I felt like plucking out a
strand or two that they might never be turned to silver, and thinking of
Aurora Leigh, kept asking myself “how many ingots went to make that
dazzling sheen?” So realistic was this “vision of beauty,” one could
easily believe it would turn and answer, did you speak to it.
It was, however, the last studio of the four where I went oftenest and
lingered longest, and always with increasing pleasure--that of Dwight
Benton, formerly of Cincinnati, and who favors the “Commercial” now and
then with a delightful letter. Doubtless you have read them. His studio
consists of two spacious rooms, most admirably lighted and tastefully
fitted up. It is a gallery in itself, with its walls covered with
“studies,” and its many easels filled with wonder-works of his never
idle brush! Of late years he paints landscapes exclusively, and it may
be added “con amore.” Such enthusiasm is bound to tell--so there are
scenes from Capri that do not seem to belong to canvass at all--that
strip of beach is there to stroll on; those cliffs you will climb sooner
or later; the chickens aroost in the little boat drawn up in the shadow
of a corner of that quaint old house, will have to fly for it by and by,
when you will want it for a sail; in a few moments you are going up the
steps to follow that tall, stately-looking peasant woman just
disappearing in that old house, for you are eager to explore it. You
look further! On another easel is a stretch of the Campagna, seen beyond
and through some near ruins. There are patches of sunlight on the grass,
not paint, but the warm, intangible sunbeams that drop from the sky to
the earth--that wonderful Campagna! It rolls away in shifting arabesques
and mosaics of all the hues
“That in the colors of the rainbow live
And play in the plighted clouds,”