ROME
That was a memorable journey to Rome by Perugia. I have travelled more
than once by that line, and the more direct one as well, since then, and
I feel as though I could never have enough of either, though to be on
the road again, as we now can be by motor, would be still greater bliss.
But the original journey took place so long ago that it has positively
an old-world glamour about it, and a certain roughness in the flavour,
so difficult to enjoy in these times of Pulman cars and Palace Hotels,
which make all places taste so much alike. The old towns on the
foothills of the Apennines drew me to the left, and the great sunlit
plains to the right, of the carriage in an _embarras de choix_ as we
sped along. Cortona, Arezzo, Castiglione--Fiorentin--each little old
city putting out its predecessor, as it seemed to me, as more perfect in
its picturesque effect than the one last seen. It was the story of the
Rhine castles and villages over again. The Lake of Trasimene appeared on
our right towards sundown, a sheet of still water so tender in its tints
and so lonely; no town on its malaria-stricken banks; a boat or two,
water-fowl among the rushes and, as we proceeded, the great, magnified
globe of the sun sinking behind the rim of the lake. We were going deep
into the Umbrian Hills, deep into old Italy; the deeper the better. We
neared Perugia, where we passed the night, before dark, and saw the old
brown city tinged faintly with the after-glow, afar off on its hill. A
massive castle stood there in those days which I have not regretted
since, as it symbolised the old time of foreign tyranny. It is gone now,
but how mediæval it looked, frowning on the world that darkening
evening. Hills stood behind the city in deep blue masses against a sky
singularly red, where a great planet was shining. There was a Perugino
picture come to life for us! Even the little spindly trees tracing their
slender branches on the red sky were in the true _naïf_ Perugino spirit!
How pleased we were! We rumbled in the four-horse station ’bus under two
echoing gateways piercing the massive outer and inner city walls and
along the silent streets, lit with rare oil lamps. Not a gas jet, aha!
But we were to feel still more deeply mediæval, whether we liked it or
not, for on reaching the Hotel de la Poste we found it was full, and had
to wander off to seek what hostel could take us in through very dark,
ancient streets. I will let the Diary speak:
“The _facchino_ of the hotel conducted us to a place little better than
a _cabaret_, belonging, no doubt, to a chum. I wouldn’t have minded
putting up there, but Mamma knew better, and, rewarding the woman of the
_cabaret_ with two francs, much against her protestations, we went off
up the steep street again and made for the ‘Corona,’ a shade better,
close to the market place. My bedroom was as though it had once been a
dungeon, so massive were the walls and deep the vaulting of the low
ceiling. We went to bed almost immediately after our dinner, which was
enlivened by the conversation of men who were eating at a neighbouring
table, all, except a priest, with their hats on. One was very
loquacious, shouting politics. He held forth about ‘_Il Mastai_,’ as he
called His Holiness Pope Pius the Ninth, and flourished renegade _Padre
Giacinto_ in the priest’s face, the courteous and laconic priest’s
eyebrows remaining at high-water mark all the time. The shouter went on
to say that English was ‘_una lingua povera e meschina_’ (‘Poor and
mean’!)”
The next morning before leaving we saw all that time allowed us of
Perugia, the bronze statue of Pope Julius III. impressing me deeply.
Indeed, there is no statue more eloquent than this one. Alas! the
Italians have removed it from its right place, and when I revisited the
city in 1900 I found the tram terminus in place of the Pope.
“_October 27th._--After the morning’s doings in sunshine the day became
sad, and from Foligno, where we had a long wait, the story is but of
rain and dusk and night. We became more and more apathetic and bored,
though we were roused up at the frontier station, where I saw the Papal
_gendarmes_ and gave the alarm. Mamma went on her knees in the carriage
and cried, ‘_Viva Il Papa Rè!_’ We all joined in, drinking his health in
some very flat ‘red _grignolino_’ we had with us. I became more and more
excited as we neared the centre of the earth, the capital of
Christendom, the highest city in the world. In the rainy darkness we ran
into the Roman station, which might have been that of Brighton for aught
we could see. I strained my eyes right and left for Papal uniforms, and
was rewarded by Zouaves and others, and lots of French (of the Legion)
into the bargain.
Then a long wait, in the ’bus of the Anglo-American Hotel, for our
luggage; and at last we rattled over the pavement, which, with its
cobble stones, was a great contrast to the large flat flags of
Florence, along very dark and gloomy streets. An apartment all crimson
damask was ready prepared for us, which looked cheery and revived us.
“_October 28th_, 56, _Via del Babuino._--The day began rather
dismally--looking for apartments in the rain! The coming of the
Œcumenical Council has greatly inflated the prices; Rome is crammed.
At last we took this attractive one for six months, ‘_esposto a
mezzogiorno_.’ Facing due south, fortunately.
“The sun came out then, and all things were bright and joyous as we
rattled off in a little victoria to feast our eyes (we two for the first
time) on St. Peter’s. Papa, knowing Rome already, knew what to do and
how best to give us our first impressions. An epoch in my life, never to
be forgotten, a moment in my existence too solemn and beyond my power of
writing to allow of my describing it! I have seen St. Peter’s. No,
indeed, no descriptions have ever given me an adequate idea of what I
have just seen. The sensation of seeing the real thing one has gazed at
in pictures and photographs with longing is one of peculiar delight.
“To find myself really on the Ponte Sant’ Angelo! No dream this. There
is the huge castle and the angel with outstretched wings, and there is
St. Peter’s in very truth. The sight of it made the tears rise and my
throat tighten, so greatly was I overcome by that soul-moving sight. The
dome is perfect; the whole, with its great piazza and colonnade, is
perfect; I am utterly overpowered and, as to writing, it is too
inadequate, and I do so merely because I must do my duty by this
journal.
“What a state I was in, though exteriorly so quiet. And all around us
other beauties--the yellow Tiber, the old houses, the great
fortress-tomb--oh, Mimi, the artist, is not all the enthusiasm in you at
full power? We got out of the carriage at the bottom of the piazza and
walked up to the basilica on foot. The two familiar fountains--so
familiar, yet seen for the first time in reality--were sending up their
spray in such magnificent abundance, which the wind took and sent in
cascade-like forms far out over the reflecting pavement. The interior of
St. Peter’s, which impresses different people in such various ways, was
a radiant revelation to me. We had but a preliminary taste to-day. We
drove thence to the Piazza del Popolo, and then had an entrancing walk
on Monte Pincio. We came down by the French Academy, with its row of
clipped ilexes, under which you see one of the most exquisite views of
silvery Rome, St. Peter’s in the middle. We dipped down by the steps of
the Trinità, where the models congregate, flecking the wide grey steps
with all the colours of the rainbow.
“_October 29th._--Papa would not let us linger in the Colosseum too
long, for to-day he wanted us to have only a general idea of things.
Those bits of distance seen through triumphal arches, between old
pillars, through gaps in ancient walls, how they please! As we were
climbing the Palatine hill a Black Franciscan came up to us for alms,
and in return offered us his snuff-box, out of which Alice and I took a
pinch, and we went sneezing over the ruins. On to the Capitol, and down
thence homeward through streets full of priests, monks and soldiers. All
the afternoon given to being tossed about, with poor Papa, by the Dogana
from the railway station to the custom-house in the Baths of Diocletian,
and from there to the artist commissioned by the Government to examine
incoming works of art. They would not let me have my box of studies,
calling them ‘modern pictures’ on which we must pay duty.”
Rome under the Temporal Power was so unlike Rome, capital of Italy, as
we see it to-day, that I think it just as well to draw largely from the
Diary, which is crammed with descriptions of men and things belonging to
the old order which can never be seen again. I love to recall it all. We
were in Rome just in time. We left it in May and the Italians entered it
in September. Though I was not a Catholic then, and found delight in
Rome almost entirely as an artist, the power and vitality of the Church
could not but impress me there.
“_October 30th._--This has been one of the most perfectly enjoyable days
of my life. Papa and I drove to the Vatican through that bright light
air which gives one such energy. The Vatican! What a place wherein to
revel. We climbed one of the mighty staircases guarded by the
interesting Papal Guards, halberd on shoulder, until we got to the top
loggia and went into the picture gallery, I to enchant my eyes with the
grandest pictures that men have conceived. But I will not touch on them
till I go there to study. And so on from one glory to another. We turned
into St. Peter’s and there strolled a long time. Before we went in, and
as we were standing at the bottom of the Scala Regia enjoying the
clearness of the sunshine on the city, we saw the _gendarmes_, the
Zouaves and others standing at attention, and, looking back, we saw the
red, black, and yellow Swiss running with operatic effect to seize their
halberds, and Cardinal Antonelli came down to get into his carriage,
almost stumbling over me, who didn’t know he was so near. Before he got
into his great old-fashioned coach, harnessed to those heavy black
horses with the trailing scarlet traces, a picturesque incident
occurred. A girl-faced young priest tremulously accosted the Cardinal,
hat in hand, no doubt begging some favour of the great man. The Cardinal
spoke a little time to him with grand kindness, and then the priest fell
on one knee, kissed the Cardinal’s ring, and got up blushing pink all
over his beautiful young face, and passed on, gracefully and modestly,
as he had done the rest. Then off rattled the carriage, the Zouaves
presented arms, salutes were made, hats lifted, and Antonelli was gone.
“In St. Peter’s were crowds of priests in different colours, forming
masses of black, purple, and scarlet of great beauty. Two Oriental
bishops were making the round, one, a Dominican, having with him a sort
of Malay for a chaplain in turban and robe. Two others had Chinamen with
pigtails in attendance, these two emaciated prelates bearing signs of
recent torture endured in China, living martyrs out of Florentine
frescoes. Yonder comes a bearded Oriental with mild, beautiful face, and
following him a scarlet-clad German with yellow hair, projecting ears,
coarse mouth, and spectacles over his little eyes; and then a
sharp-visaged Jesuit, or a spiritual, wan Franciscan and a burly Roman
secular. No end of types. One very young Italian monk had the face of a
saint, all ready made for a fresco. I looked at him in unspeakable
admiration as he stood looking up at some inscription, probably
translating it in his own mind. On our way home, to crown all, we met
the Pope. His outrider in cocked hat and feathers came clattering along
the narrow street in advance, then a red-and-gold coach, black prancing
horses--all shadowy to me, as I was intent only on catching a view of
the Holy Father. We got out of the carriage, as in duty bound, and bent
the knee like the rest as he passed by. I saw his profile well, with
that well-known smile on his kind face. As we looked after the carriages
and horsemen the effect was touching of the people kneeling in masses
along the way. The sight of Italian men kneeling is novel to me in the
extreme.
“_October 31st._--I went first, with Mamma and Alice, to St. Peter’s,
where I studied types, attitudes and costumes. The sight of a Zouave
officer kneeling, booted and spurred, his sword by his side, and his
face shaded with his hand, is indeed striking, and one knows all those
have enrolled themselves for a sacred cause they have at heart--higher
even than for love of any particular country. The difference of types
among these Zouaves is most interesting. The Belgian and Dutch decidedly
predominate. Papa and I went thence for a fascinating stroll of many
hours, finding it hard to turn back. We went up to Sant’ Onofrio and
then round by the great Farnese Palace. The view from Sant’ Onofrio over
Rome is--well, my language is utterly annihilated here. How invigorated
I felt, and not a bit tired.”
I have never been able to call up enthusiasm over the Pantheon,
low-lying, black and pagan in every line. Why does Byron lash himself
into calling it “Pride of Rome”? For the same reason, I suppose, that he
laments and sighs over the disappearance of Dodona’s “aged grove and
oracle divine.” As if any one cares! The view of Rome from Monte Mario,
being _the_ view, should have a place here as we saw it one of those
richly-coloured days.
“_November 3rd._--My birthday, marked by the customary birthday
expedition, this time to Monte Mario. Nothing could be more splendid
than looked the Capital of the World as it lay below us when we reached
the top of that commanding height. The Campagna lay beyond it, ending in
that direction with the Sabine and Alban Mountains, the furthest all
white with snow. Buildings, cypresses, pines, formed foreground groups
to the silver city as they only can do to such perfection in these
parts. In another direction we could see the Campagna with its straight
horizon like a calm rosy-brown sea meeting the limpid sky. We drove a
long way on the high road across the Campagna Florence-wards. No high
walls as in the Florentine drives were here to shut out the views, which
unfolded themselves on all sides as we trotted on. We got out of the
carriage on the Campagna and strolled about on the brown grass, enjoying
the sweet free breeze and the great sweep of country stretching away to
the luminous horizon towards the sun, and to the lilac mountains in the
other direction. These mountains became tender pink as we went
Romewards, and when the city again appeared it was in a richly-coloured
light, the Campagna beyond in warm shadow from large chocolate-coloured
clouds which were rising heaped up into the sky. A superb effect.”
Here follow many days chiefly given up to studio hunting and “property”
seeking for my work, soon to be set up. Models there were in plenty, of
course, as Rome was then still the artists’ headquarters. How things
have changed!
I began with a _ciociara_ spinning with a distaff in the well-known and
very much used-up costume, just for practice, and another peasant girl.
Then I painted, at my dear mother’s earnest desire, “The
Magnificat”--Mary’s visit to Elizabeth--and on off days my father and I
“did” all the pictures contained in various palaces, the Vatican, and
the Villa Borghese, filling pages and pages of notes in the old Diary. I
felt the value of every day in Rome. Many people might think I ought not
to have worked so much in a studio, but I think I divided the time well.
I felt I must keep my hand in, and practise with the brush, though how
often I was tempted to join the others on some fascinating ramble may be
imagined. Soon, however, the rains of a Roman December set in, and Rome
became very wet indeed. Our father read us Roman history every evening
when there were no visitors. We had a good many, our mother and her
music and brightness soon attracting all that was nice in the English
and American colonies. Dear old Mr. Severn, he in whose arms Keats died,
often took tea with us (we kept our way of having dinner early and tea
in the evening), and there was an antiquarian who took interest in
nothing whatever except the old Roman walls, and he used to come and
hold forth about the “Agger of Servius Tullius” till my head went round.
He kept his own on, it seemed to me, by pressing his hand on the bald
top of it as he explained to us about that bit of “agger” which he had
discovered, and the herring-bone brick of which it was built. Often as I
have revisited Rome, I cannot become enthusiastic over the discovery of
some old Roman sewer, or bit of hot-water pipe, or horrible stone basin
with a hole in the bottom for draining off the blood of sacrificial
oxen. I always long to get back into the sunshine and fresh air from the
mouldy depths of Pagan Rome when I get caught in a party to whom the
antiquarian enthusiasts like to hold forth below the surface of the
earth. Alice listens, deferential and controlled, while I fidget,
supporting myself on my umbrella, with such a face! Here is a little bit
of Papal Rome impossible to-day:
“_November 29th._--In the course of our long ramble after my work Papa
and I, in the soft evening, came upon a scene which I shall not forget,
made by a young priest preaching to a little crowd in the street before
the side door of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, a Rembrandtesque effect
being produced by the two lamps held by a priest at either side of the
platform on which the preacher stood. One of these held the large
crucifix to which the preacher turned at times, with gestures of rapture
such as only an Italian could use in so natural a way. To see him,
lighted from below, in his black habit and hear his impassioned voice!
All the men were bareheaded, and such as passed by took their hats off.
Penetrating as the priest’s voice was, it was now and then quite drowned
by the street noises, especially the rattling of wheels on the rough
stones.”
The days that follow are filled with my work on “The Visitation,” with
few intervals of sight-seeing. Then comes the great ecclesiastical event
to be marked in history, which brought all the world to Rome.
“_Opening of the Œcumenical Council, December 8th._--A memorable day,
this! We got up by candlelight, as at a quarter past seven we were to
drive to St. Peter’s. The dreary raining dawn was announced, just as it
broke, by the heavy cannon of Castel Sant’ Angelo, the flash of which
was reflected in the blue-grey sky long before the sound reached us, and
the cannon on the Aventine echoed those of the Castel. How dreary it
felt, yet how imposing for any one who has got into the right feeling
about this solemn event. On our way we overtook scores of priests on
foot, trying to walk clear of the puddles in those thin, buckled shoes
of theirs. It must have been trying for the old ones. There were bishops
amongst them, too poor to afford a cab. We have seen them day after day
thus going to the Vatican meetings. One great blessing the rain brought:
it kept hundreds of people from coming to the church, and thus saved
many crushings to death, for it is terrible to contemplate, seeing what
a crowd there actually was, what it might have been had the building
been crammed. Entrance and egress were both at one end of the church.
That thought must console me for the terrible toning down and darkening
of what, otherwise, would have been a great pageant. So many thousands
of wet feet brought something like a lake half way up the floor; so
slippery was it that, had the crowd swayed in a panic, it wouldn’t have
been very nice.
“Papa and I insinuated ourselves into the hedge of people kept back by
Zouaves and Palatine Guards, as we came opposite the statue of St.
Peter, and I eventually got fixed three rows back from the soldiers, and
was lucky to get in so far. I was jammed between a monk and a short
youth of the ‘horsey’ kind. The atmosphere in that warm, wet crowd was
trying. I could see into the Council Hall opposite.
[Illustration: ROMAN IMPRESSIONS IN 1870.
THE LAST OF THE RIDERLESS HORSE-RACES, AND A WET TRUDGE
TO THE VATICAN COUNCIL.]
“The passage kept clear for the great procession was very wide. On the
other side I could see rows of English and American girls and elderly
females in the best places, as usual, right to the front, as bold as
brass, and didn’t they eye the bishops over through their
_pince-nez!_ We must have been waiting two hours before the procession
entered the church. I ought to have mentioned that the sacred dark
bronze statue of St. Peter was robed in gorgeous golden vestments with a
splendid triple crown on its head, making it look like a black Pope, and
very life-like from where I saw it. It seemed very strange.
“At last there was a buzz as people perceived the slowly-moving
_silhouette_ of the procession as it passed along in a far-off gallery,
veiled from us by pink curtains, against the light and very high up,
over the entrance. We could see the prelates had all vested by the
outlines of the mitres and the high-shouldered look of the figures in
stiff copes. As the procession entered the church the ‘Veni Creator’
swelled up majestically and floated through the immense space. The
effect of the procession to me was _nil_; all I could do was to catch a
glimpse of each bishop as he passed between the bobbing heads of the men
in front of me. All the European and United States Bishops were in white
and silver, but now and then there passed Oriental Patriarchs in rich
vestments, their picturesque dark faces (two were quite brown) telling
so strikingly amongst the pale or rosy Europeans. Each had his solemn
secretary, with imperturbable Eastern face, bearing his jewelled crown,
something in shape like the dome of a mosque. One Oriental wore a jewel
on his dusky forehead, another a black cowl over his head, shading his
keen, dark face, the coarse cowl contrasting in a startling way with the
delicate splendour of the gold and pink and amber vestments worn over
the rough monk’s habit. Still, all this could not be imposing to me,
having to squint and crane as I did, seldom being able to see with both
eyes at once. I could at intervals see the silvery prelates, most of
them with snowy heads, and the dark Easterns mount into their seats in
the Council Chamber, our Archbishop Manning amongst them. I had a quite
good glimpse of Cardinal Bonaparte, very like the great Napoleon. Of the
Pope I saw nothing. He was closely surrounded, as he walked past, by the
high-helmeted Noble Guard, and, of course, at that supreme moment every
one in front of me strove to get a better sight of him. Then Papa and I
gladly struggled our way out of the great crowd and went to seek Mamma,
who, very wisely, had not attempted to get a place, but was meekly
sitting on the steps of a confessional in a quiet chapel. Mamma then
went home, and we went into the crowd again to try and see the Council
from a point opposite. We saw it pretty well, the two white banks of
mitred bishops on each side and, far back, the little red Pope in the
middle. Mass was being sung, all Gregorian, but it was faintly heard
from our great distance.
“No council business was being done to-day; it was only the Mass to open
the meeting. The crowd was most interesting. Surely every nation was
represented in it. An officer of the 42nd Highlanders had an excellent
effect. What shall I do in London, with its dead level of monotony? Oh!
dear, oh! dear. I was quite loth to go home. And so the council is
opened. God speed!”
The Ghetto was in existence in those days, so I have even experienced
the sight of _that_. Very horrible, packed with “red-haired, blear-eyed
creatures, with loose lips and long, baggy noses.” Thus I describe them
in this warren, during our drive one day. What a “_sventramento_” that
must have been when the Italians cleared away and cleaned up all that
congested horror. Wide, wind-swept spaces and a shining, though hideous,
synagogue met my astonished gaze when next I went there and couldn’t
find the Ghetto.
At the end of the year La Signorina Elizabetta Thompson had to apply to
his Eminenza Riverendissima Cardinal Berardi, Minister of Public Works,
to announce her intention of sending the “Magnificat” to the Pope’s
international exhibition. At that picture I worked hard, my mother being
my model for Our Lady, and an old _ciociara_ from the Trinità steps for
St. Elizabeth. How it rained that December! But we had radiant sunshine
in between the days when the streets were all running with red-brown
rivulets, through which the horses splashed as if fording a stream.
“_January 25th, 1870._--I finished my ‘Magnificat’ to-day. Yet ought I
to say I ceased to paint at it, for ‘finish’ suggests something far
beyond what this picture is. Well, I shall enjoy being on the loose now.
To stroll about Rome after having passed through a picture is perfect
enjoyment. I should feel very uncomfortable at the present time if I
had, up till now, done nothing but lionise. I have no hope of my picture
being accepted now, but still it is pleasant to think that I have worked
hard.
“_February 3rd._--I took my picture to the Calcografia place, as warned
to do. There, in dusty horror, it awaits the selecting committee’s
review, which takes place to-morrow. Mamma and I held it manfully in the
little open carriage to keep it from tumbling out, our arms stretched to
their utmost. Lots of men were shuffling about in that dusty place with
pictures of all sizes. But, oh! what a scene of horror was that
collection of daubs. Oh! mercy on us.
“_February 5th._--My ‘Magnificat’ is accepted. First, off goes Mamma
with Celestina to the Calcografia to learn the fate of the picture, and
bring it back triumphant, she and the maid holding it steady in the
little open carriage. Soon after, off we go to the Palazzo Poli to see
nice Mr. Severn, who says he is so proud of me, and will do all he can
to help me in art matters, to see whether he could make the exhibition
people hang my picture well, as we were told the artists had to see to
that themselves if they wanted it well done. I, for my part, would leave
it to them and rather shirk a place on the line, for my picture is
depressingly unsatisfactory to me, but Mamma, for whom I have painted
it, loves it, and wants it well placed ‘so that the Pope may see it’!
From thence off we go to the abode of the Minister of Commerce, Cardinal
B., for my pass. We were there told, to our dismay, that we could not
take the picture ourselves to the exhibition, as it was held in the
cloisters of Sta. Maria degli Angeli, and no permission had yet been
given to admit women before the opening. But I knew that between Papa
and Mr. Severn the picture would be seen to inside the cloistered walls.
After lunch, off goes Papa with my pass, we following in the little open
carriage as before, holding the old picture before us with straining
arms and knitted brows, very much jolted and bumped. We are stopped at
the cloisters, and told to drive out again, and there we pull up, our
faces turned in the opposite direction. The hood of the carriage
suddenly collapses, and we are revealed, unable to let go the picture,
with the soldiers collected about the place grinning. Papa arrives, and
he and two _facchini_ come to the rescue, and then disappear with the
picture amongst the forbidden regions enclosed in the gloomy ruins of
Diocletian’s Baths. Papa, on returning home, told me how charmed old
Severn, who was there, was with the picture, and even Podesti, the
judge, after some criticisms, and in no way ready to give it a good
place, said to Severn he had expected the signorina’s picture to be
rubbish (_porcheria_). I suppose because it was a woman’s work. He
retracted, and said he would like to see me.
“_February 14th._--I began another picture to-day, after all my
resolutions to the contrary, the subject, two Roman shepherds playing at
‘_Morra_’, sitting on a fallen pillar, a third _contadino_, in a cloak,
looking on. I posed my first model, putting a light background to him,
the effect being capital, he coming rich and dusky against it. He soon
understood I wanted energy thrown into the action. I shall delight in
this subject, because the hands figure so conspicuously in the game.
“_February 15th._--I went up alone to the Trinità to choose the other
young man for my ‘Morra,’ and, after a little inspection of the group of
lolling Romagnoli, gave the apple to one with a finely-cut profile and
black hair, the other models, male and female, clustering round to hear,
and many bystanders and the Zouave sentry, hard by, looking on.”
On one evening in this eventful Roman period I had the opportunity of
seeing the famous race of the riderless horses (the _barberi_), which
closed the Carnival doings. The impression remains with me quite vividly
to this day. The colour, the movement; the fast-deepening twilight; the
historic associations of that vast Piazza del Popolo, where I see the
great obelisk retaining, on its upper part, the last flush from the
west; the impetuous waters of the fountains at its base in cool shadow;
St. Peter’s dome away to the left--this is the setting. Then I hear the
clatter of the dragoon’s horses as the detachment forms up for clearing
the course. The stands, at the foot of the obelisk, are full, some of
the crowd in carnival costume and with masks. A sharp word of command
rings out in the chilly air. Away go the dragoons, down the narrow Corso
and back, at full gallop, splitting the surging crowd with theatrical
effect. The line is clear. Now comes the moment of expectancy! At that
unique starting post, the obelisk upon which Moses in Egypt may have
looked as upon an interesting monument of antiquity in pre-Exodus days,
there appear eleven highly-nervous barbs, tricked out with plumes and
painted with white spots and stripes. The convicts who lead them in
(each man, one may say, carrying his life in his hand) are trying, with
iron grip, to keep their horses quiet, for the spiked balls and other
irritants are now unfastened and dangling loose from the horses’ backs.
But one terrified beast comes on “kicking against the pricks” already.
The whole pack become wild. The more they plunge, the more the balls
bang and prick. One furious creature, wrenching itself free, whirls
round in the wrong direction. But there is no time to lose; the
restraining rope must be cut. A gun booms; there is a shout and clapping
of hands. Ten of the horses, with heads down, get off in a bunch,
shooting straight as arrows for the Corso; the eleventh slips on the
cobbles, rolls over and, recovering itself, tears after its pals,
straining every nerve. I hear a voice shout “_E capace di vincere!_”
(“He is fit to win!”) and in an instant the lot are engulfed in that
dark, narrow street, the squibs on their backs going off like pistol
shots, and the crackling bits of metallic tinsel, getting detached, fly
back in a shower of light. The sparks from the iron heels splash out in
red fire through the dusk. The course is just one mile--the whole length
of the straight street. At the winning post a great sheet is stretched
across the way, through which some of the horses burst, to be captured
some days afterwards while roaming about the open spaces of the
Campagna. It is the dense crowd, forming two walls along the course,
that forces the horses to keep the centre. This was the last of the
_barberi_. They were more frightened than hurt, yet I am not sorry that
these races have been abolished.
Here follow records of expeditions in weather of spring freshness--to
catacombs, along the Via Appia, to the wild Campagna, and all the
delights of that Roman time when the lark inspires the poet. I got on
well with my “Morra” picture, which wasn’t bad, and which has a niche in
my art career, because it turned out to be the first picture I sold,
which joyful event happened in London.
“_March 25th_.--A brilliant day, full of colour. This is a great feast,
the Annunciation, and I gave up work to see the Pope come in grand
procession to the Church of the Minerva with his Cross Bearer on a white
mule, and all the cardinals, bishops, ambassadors and officials in
carriages of antique magnificence, a spectacle of great pomp, and
nowhere else to be seen. We did it in this wise. At nine we drove to the
Minerva, the sun very brilliant and the air very cold, and soon posted
ourselves on the steps of the church in the midst of a tight crowd, I
quite helpless in a knot of French soldiers of the Legion, who chaffed
each other good-humouredly over my head. The piazza, in the midst of
which rises the funny little obelisk on the elephant’s back, swarmed
with people, black being quite the exception in that motley crowd.
Zouaves and the Legion formed a square to keep the piazza open, and
dragoons pranced officiously about, as is their wont. Every balcony was
thronged with gay ladies and full-dressed officers (some most gallant
and smart Austrians were at a window near us), and crimson cloth and
brocade flapped from every window, here in powerful sunshine, there in
effective shadow. Some dark, Florentine-coloured houses opposite, mostly
in shade, as they were between us and the sun, had a strong effect
against the bright sky, their crimson cloths and gaily dressed ladies
relieving their dark masses, and their beautiful roofs and chimneys
making a lovely sky line.
“Presently the gilt and painted coaches of the cardinals began to
arrive, huge, high-swung vehicles drawn by very fat black horses dressed
out with gold and crimson trappings, but the servants and coachmen, in
spite of their extra full get-up, having that inimitable shabby-genteel
appearance which belongs exclusively to them. The Prior of the
Dominicans, to which order this church belongs, stood outside the
archway through which the Pope and all went into the church after
alighting from their coaches. He was there to welcome them, and, oh! the
number of bows he must have made, and his mouth must have ached again
with all those wide smiles. Near him also stood the Noble Guards and all
the general officers, plastered over with orders; and all these, too,
saluted and salaamed as each ecclesiastical bigwig grandly and
courteously swept by under the archway, glowing in his scarlet and
shining in his purple. The carriages pulled up at the spot of all others
best suited to us. Everything was filled with light, the cardinals
glowing like rubies inside their coaches, even their faces all aglow
with the red reflections thrown up from their ardent robes. But there
presently came a sight which I could hardly stand; it was eloquent of
the olden time and filled the mind with a strange feeling of awe and
solemnity, as though long ages had rolled back and by a miracle the dead
time had been revived and shown to us for a brief and precious moment.
On a sleek white mule came a prelate, all in pure lilac, his grey head
bare to the sunshine and carrying in his right hand the gold and
jewelled Cross. The trappings of the mule were black and gold, a large
black, square cloth thrown over its back in the mediæval fashion. The
Cross, which was large and must have weighed considerably, was very
conspicuous. The beauty of the colour of mule and rider, the black and
gold housings of that white beast, the lilac of the rider’s robes, and
the tender glory of the embossed Cross--how these things enchant me! An
attendant took the Cross as the priest dismounted. Then a flourish of
modern Zouave bugles and a sharp roll of the drum intruded the forgotten
present day on our notice, and soon on came the gallant _gendarmerie_
and dragoons, and then the coach of His Holiness, seeming to bubble over
with molten gold in the sunshine. Its six black horses ambled fatly
along, all but the wheelers trailing their long, red traces almost on
the ground, as seems to be the ecclesiastical fashion in harness (only
the wheelers really pull), and guided by bedizened postillions in wigs
decidedly like those worn by English Q.C.’s. Flowers were showered down
on this coach from the windows, and much cheering rang in the fresh,
clear air. I see now in my mind’s eye the out-thrust chins and long,
bare necks of a clump of enthusiastic Zouaves shouting with all their
hearts under the Pope’s carriage windows in divers tongues. But the
English ‘Long live the Pope King,’ though given with a will, did not
travel as far as the open ‘_Viva il Papa Rè_’ or ‘_Vive le Pape Roi_.’ I
put in my British ‘Hurrah!’ as did Papa, splendidly, just as three old
and very fat cardinals had painfully got down from His Holiness’s high
coach and he himself had begun to emerge. We could see him quite well in
the coach, because the sides were more glass than gilding, and very
assiduously did the kind-looking old man bless the people right and left
as he drove up. He had on his head, not the skull cap I have hitherto
seen him in, which allows his silver locks to be seen, but the
old-lady-like headgear so familiar to me from pictures, notably several
portraits of Leo X. at Florence, which covers the ears and is bound with
ermine. It makes the lower part of the face look very large, and is not
becoming. After getting down he stood a long time receiving homage from
many grandees, and smiled and beamed with kindness on everybody. Then we
all bundled into the church, but as every one there was standing on,
instead of sitting on, the chairs, we could see nothing of the
ceremonies. We struggled out, after listening a little to the singing,
and Papa and I strolled delightedly to St. Peter’s, on whose great
piazza we awaited the return of the procession. It was very beautiful,
winding along towards us, with my white mule and all, over that vast
space.”
Remember, Reader, that these things can never more be seen, and that is
why I give these extracts _in extenso_. Merely as history they are
precious. How we would like to have some word pictures of Rome in the
seventeenth, sixteenth and fifteenth centuries, but we don’t get them.
The chronicles tell us of magnificence, numbers, illustrious people,
dress, and so forth; but, somehow, we would like something more intimate
and descriptive of local colour--effects of weather, etc.--to help us to
realise life as it was in the olden time. I think in this age of
ugliness we prize the picturesque and the artistic all the more for
their rarer charm.
After “Morra” I did a life-size oil study of the head of the celebrated
model, Francesco, which was a great advance in freedom of brush work.
But the walks were not abandoned, and many a delightful round we made
with our father, who was very happy in Rome. The Colosseum was rich in
flowers and trees, which clothed with colour its hideous stages of
seats. The same abundant foliage beautified the brickwork of Caracalla’s
Baths, but those beautiful veils were, unfortunately, slowly helping
further to demolish the ruins, and had to be all cleared away later on.
I have several times managed to wander over those eerie ruins in later
years by full moon, but I have never again enjoyed the awe-inspiring
sensation produced by the first visit, when those trees waved and
sighed, and the owls hooted, as in Byron’s time. And then the loneliness
of the Colosseum was more impressive, and helped one to detach oneself
in thought from the present day more easily. Now the town is creeping
out that way.
“_April 3rd._--Our goal was Santa Croce to-day, beyond the Lateran, for
there the Pope was to come to bless the ‘Agnus Dei.’ This ceremony
takes place only once in seven years. Everything was _en petite tenue_,
the quietest carriages, the seediest servants, but oh! how glorious it
all was in that fervent sunlight. We stood outside the church, I greatly
enjoying the amusing crowd, full of such varied types. The effect of the
Pope’s two carriages and the horsemen coming trotting along the
straight, long road from St. John’s to this church, the luminous dust
rising in clouds in the wind, was very pretty. The shouting and cheering
and waving of handkerchiefs were quite frantic, more hearty even than at
the Minerva. People seemed to feel more easy and jolly here, with no
grandeur to awe them. His Holiness looked much more spry than when I
last saw him. We lost poor little Mamma and, in despair, returned
without her, and she didn’t turn up till 7 o’clock!”
The Roman Diary of 1870 must end with the last Easter Benediction given
under the temporal power, _Urbi et Orbi_.
“_Easter Sunday, April 17th_.--What a day, brimming over with rich
eye-feasts, with pomp and splendour! What can the eye see nowadays to
come anywhere near what I saw to-day, except on this anniversary here in
unique Rome? Of course, all the world knows that the splendour of this
great ceremony outshines that of any other here or in the whole world.
Mamma and I reserved ourselves for the benediction alone, so did not
start for St. Peter’s till ten o’clock, and got there long before the
troops. On getting out of the carriage we strolled leisurely to the
steps leading up to the church, where we took up our stand, enjoying the
delicious sunshine and fresh, clear air, and also the interesting people
that were gradually filling the piazza, amongst whom were pilgrims with
long staves, many being Neapolitans, the women in new costumes of the
brightest dyes and with snowy _tovaglie_ artistically folded. Some of
these women carried the family luggage on their heads, this luggage
being great bundles wrapped in rugs of red, black, and yellow stripes,
some with the big coloured umbrella passed through and cleverly
balanced. All these people had trudged on foot all the way. Their shoes
hung at their waists, and also their water flasks. As the troops came
pouring in we were requested by the sappers to range ourselves and not
to encroach beyond the bottom step. Here was a position to see from! We
watched the different corps forming to the stirring bugle and trumpet
sounds, the officers mounting their horses, all splendid in velvet
housings, the officers in the fullest of full dress. There was no
pushing in the crowd, and we were as comfortable as possible. But there
was a scene to our left, up on the terrace that runs along the upper
part of the piazza and is part of the Vatican, which was worth to me all
the rest; it was, pictorially, the most beautiful sight of all. Along
this terrace, the balustrade of which was hung with mellow old faded
tapestry, and bears those dark-toned, effective statues standing out so
well against the blue sky, were collected in a long line, I should say,
nearly all the bishops who are gathered here in Rome for the Council, in
their white and silver vestments, and wearing their snowy mitres, a few
dark-dressed ladies in veils and an officer in bright colour here and
there supporting most artistically those long masses of white. Above the
heads of this assembly stretched the long white awning, through which
the strong sun sent a glowing shade, and above that the clear sky, with
the Papal white and yellow flags and standards in great quantities
fluttering in the breeze! My delighted eyes kept wandering up to that
terrace away from the coarser military picturesqueness in front. Up
there was a real bit of the olden time. There was a feeling as of lilies
about those white-robed pontiffs. At last a sign from a little balcony
high up on the façade was given, and all the troops sprang to attention,
and then the gentle-faced old Pope glided into view there, borne on his
chair and wearing the triple crown. Clang go the rifles and sabres in a
general salute, and a few ‘_evvivas_’ burst from the crowd, which are
immediately suppressed by a general ‘sh-sh-sh,’ and amidst a most
imposing silence, the silence of a great multitude, the Pope begins to
read from a crimson book held before him with the voice of a strong
young man. Curiously enough, in this stillness all the horses began to
neigh, but their voices could not drown the single one of Pio Nono.
After the reading the Pope rose, and down went, on their knees, the mass
of people and soldiers, ‘like one man,’ and the old Pope pressed his
hands together a moment and then flung open his arms upwards with an
action full of electrifying fervour as he pronounced the grand words of
the blessing which rang out, it seemed, to the ends of the Earth.
“In the evening we saw the famous illumination of the dome of St.
Peter’s from the Pincian. The wind rather spoiled the first or silver
one, but the next, the golden, was a grand sight, beginning with the
cross at the top and running down in streams over the dome. As I looked,
I heard a funny bit of Latin from an English tourist, who asked a priest
‘_Quis est illuminatio, olio o gas?_’ ‘_Olio, olio_,’ answered the
priest good-naturedly.”
And so our Papal Rome on May 2nd, 1870, retreated into my very
appreciative memory, and we returned for a few days to Florence, and
thence to Padua and Venice and Verona on our way to England through the
Tyrol and Bavaria. What a downward slope in art it is from Italy into
Germany! We girls felt a great irritation at the change, and were too
recalcitrant to attend to the German sights properly.
But I filled the Diary with very searching notes of the wonderful things
I saw in Venice, thanks to Veronese, Titian, Tintoretto, Palma Vecchio
and others, who filled me with all that an artist can desire in the way
of colour. I was anxious to improve my weak point, and here was a
lesson!
It is curious, however, to watch through the succeeding years how I was
gradually inducted by circumstances into that line of painting which is
so far removed from what inspired me just then. It was the Franco-German
War and a return to the Isle of Wight that sent me back on the military
road with ever diminishing digressions. Well, perhaps my father’s fear,
which I have already mentioned in my early ‘teens, that I was joining in
a “tremendous ruck” in taking the field would have been justified had I
not taken up a line of painting almost non-exploited by English artists.
The statement of a French art critic when writing of one of my war
pictures, “_L’Angleterre n’a guère qu’un peintre militaire, c’est une
femme_,” shows the position. I wish I could have another life here below
to share the joys of those who paint what I studied in Italy, if only
for the love of such work, though I am very certain I should be quite
indistinguishable in _that_ “ruck.”