A WINTER IN THE ETERNAL CITY.
Gerald Bereford was now enjoying the soft summer breezes, blue skies and
golden sunshine of an Italian climate. His health seemed to improve as
he neared the far-famed city--the eternal city--the gigantic monument of
what has been in ages of the mighty past. Many visions arose before Lady
Rosamond's mind as she contemplated the magnificent ruins that met her
at every gaze. In the company of several acquaintances they visited
scenes of impressive and peculiar interest: St. Peter's, in all its
glory, rising from its piazza of stately columns and fountains,
something too grand for description. This imposing specimen of classic
architecture, with grandeur inconceivable, the interior, the lofty dome,
called up emotions her ladyship could never forget. In the coliseum the
invalid seemed to enjoy returning vigor as he looked down from the upper
halls and viewed the triumphal arches of Constantine, Septimus, Severus
and Titus, now crumbling into decay, the lofty corridors left to the
mercy of the elements, the endless porches grass grown and unprotected
from the wild beast, the mouldering parapet, taught the one inspiring
theme--mortality. This ruin of ruins--what can it not recall to a vivid
imagination? The thousands who lined those seats in eager gaze upon the
arena with its bloody and heart-sickening conflicts, its array of
blood-thirsty antagonists, its dying groans, its weltering victims.
Where are they? What remains? Awful solitude, awful grandeur, awful
beauty, desolation. Peace, the emblem of Christianity, now reigns in the
ancient stronghold of barbaric passion, butchery and strife. Lady
Rosamond had visited ruins of palaces, castles, bridges, arches,
cathedrals, monuments and countless relics of the past, but none had the
power to chain her thoughts as the stupendous coliseum, viewed in the
solemn stillness of a moonlight night. The present was a beautiful
dream. It had a softening effect upon the devoted wife, infusing peace,
content, and calm repose. The solemn reminders on every side had a charm
to soothe her hitherto troubled breast. Holy emotions were nurtured
within the heart where once reposed unresisting conflicts of rebellious
strife and discontent.
With the warm breath of nature came awakening life into the emaciated
frame of the invalid. Lady Rosamond devoted every waking moment to her
husband. In the charming eventide they sat upon the balcony of their
residence overlooking the Corso, catching a glimpse of the open country
beyond the surrounding mountains and the ever restless Tiber.
Frequently, they rode slowly along the Appian Way, now almost impassable
for heaps of rubbish, mounds, and broken fragments, temples, columns,
pillars, and successive piles of neglected relics. The Campagna, in its
dreary aspect, often tempted their stay. Sometimes her ladyship would
have a feeling of vexation, knowing that it was utterly impossible to
visit more of the sights of Rome. They might remain for years and leave
many scenes unexplored. The palace of the Vatican formed a life-long
study for Lady Rosamond. Only a few of its four thousand rooms could be
visited, yet these were bewildering in variety. Here they could view the
most wonderful collections of art and grandeur that the world affords.
Here were stored the endless piles of antique trophies of every
clime--rooms representing oriental scenes throughout, starlit skies, and
monsters of unknown existence meet one on every side and fill the mind
with awe.
For the benefit of the reader we will insert the letters written by Lady
Rosamond to her friend, Mary Douglas, containing a short description of
some important places, and showing the tender interest inciting the
writer when referring to the circumstance of her husband's ill
health--the hopeful vein which pervaded throughout, and the true spirit
of friendship extended to the absent one.
Rome, February 10th, 1831.
_My Dearest Mary_:
As many miles lie between us there is no alternative but the
hastily written and imperfect scribble which will shortly be
presented you, if the elements have not conspired against us.
In order to relieve your uneasiness I beg to state that Gerald's
health is daily improving. He has much faith in Rome. Scarcely a
day passes without his enjoying the benefit of the delightful
atmosphere and the lovely drives out into the open country, of
which I must tell you afterwards. The large number of acquaintances
formed since our arrival have contributed much to our enjoyment. We
frequently meet many of our old friends. Imagine our delightful
surprise on seeing Captain Crofton, his wife and daughter. Of
course you remember the latter--a lovely girl of purely blonde
style, whom we meet at Lady Berkeley's, and who created such
sensations in London circles on her first appearance in society.
Gerald declares that the face of an old friend is better than
medicine. What do you think he would say were you to enter rather
suddenly upon us? My dearest, I know what I would say if such an
overwhelming happiness were in store. These thoughts call up
feelings which are inimical to peace and content. I am almost
tempted to wish for the quiet of our English home and the sight of
your dear face. But this must not be. I shall forget to give you
some sights of Rome if I indulge in vain and foolish regrets.
Really I am at a loss how to convey any idea of such scenes as we
are almost daily witnessing. In the present instance I feel my
inability to appreciate what is lofty and inspiring to every
cultivated mind. Often I am inclined to envy those of brilliant
intellectual perceptions like yourself. When the day arrives that
you visit the Eternal City will it not be viewed in a different
sense than in the present under the ordinary gaze of your
short-sighted Rosamond?
Gerald says: "Tell Mary something of the churches," without
thinking of the arduous task therein devolved. Poor fellow! He
seems anxious to make amends for so much self-sacrifice. In
compliance to his wishes your friend reaps twofold pleasure,
therefore Mary shall hear "of the churches."
About three weeks ago a party of tourists, including the Croftons
and ourselves; visited several of the grand old churches, so
important in the history of Roman architecture of classic ages. The
first we entered was the church of the Ara Coeli, said to occupy
the site of the ancient temple of Jupiter Feretrius. It was a
gloomy old structure with long rows of pillars of Etruscan design.
On ascending the long flight of steep stairs on one side the
impressive gloom increased. The situation awoke old associations of
the sybilline and vague predictions of the time-honored
soothsayers--their power--their greatness--their fall. We were more
than impressed with the churches of St. Giovanni and St. Paolo,
beneath which lay in awful depths the subterranean caverns said to
be connected with the Coliseum. Gerald remained above while I
followed the explorers through these dismal yawning gulfs seemingly
ready to open and shut their victims in a living tomb. Streets ran
in various directions; the mouldy, damp walls emitted a
disagreeable watery vapor that rendered the air unbearable;
stagnant pools lay on all sides. Is it not an appalling thought
that these successive ranges of caverns were constructed for the
human victims to be eaten by the beasts at the Coliseum, yet such
is the legend. Doubtless you already weary of churches, but having
first attempted them at the suggestion of Gerald, now I am deeply
interested in the matter myself. But you will only listen to one
more very short account. The church of San Sebastiano, which next
received us, is situated on the Appian Way, and perhaps the most
remarkable of any we have hitherto visited. The site is truly
beyond description. The stupendous masses of rocks piled on every
side appeared to give it an interest more than common. The endless
rows of decaying columns, pillars, stained windows, and paintings,
added one more link to the chain of daily events which form such an
important part in our visit.
As I intend very soon to write you something of a livelier
description, I now conclude this hastily-written scribble. Dearest,
I expect to hear from you all immediately. Gerald is rapidly
improving, and is sanguine of ultimate recovery. Adieu. From
Your Rosamond.
Lady Rosamond now entertained hopes of her husband's recovery. He seemed
much stronger and took a deeper interest in their explorations. In the
company of English friends he visited all the accessible spots of
historic ground. Lady Rosamond was always ready to encourage him by her
hopeful remarks and winning smile. She had formed an attachment to the
lovely Mabel Crofton, who indeed repaid her in a fond return.
Nothing gave Gerald Bereford more anxiety than the pale face of his
wife. In his feeble health he strove to draw her ladyship's attention
towards the social circle with a view to raise her occasional drooping
spirits.
In the young English maiden Lady Rosamond found much company. They
conversed much and enjoyed the sights together with united regard and
interest.
In answer to a lengthy letter received shortly afterwards from Mary
Douglas, the following was penned by Lady Rosamond:
Rome, April 15th, 1831.
_My Darling Mary_:
Truly did you respond to my wishes. How can I ever repay so much
devotion? You have indeed granted my requests in mentioning all my
friends, and giving all the matter which interests Gerald so much.
He is indeed truly grateful and is going to write you by next mail.
His health has not been improving so rapidly of late, yet we have
every hope of his recovery. Will it not be a happy moment when we
meet again on the shores of dear old England? The very dust and fog
will have a charm hitherto unknown.
As we are in Rome you will expect something from Rome, therefore I
will tell you of what has recently been going on. Last week was the
Carnival. Gerald complained of weakness and fatigue, having exerted
himself too much during the previous week. He was much disappointed
in not being able to participate in the amusement, but had to be
satisfied by remaining on the balcony of our residence, overlooking
the Corso, which, as you know, is the principal street paraded on
those occasions. Gerald interrupts me by requesting a long letter
and full description, therefore on him alone rests the blame if I
exceed the length usually devoted to letter writing.
Now for the Carnival. At an early hour on Monday morning the usual
bustle and active preparations commenced. Carriages rolled along
laden with confectionaries and flowers. In fact the street, houses,
and passing vehicles of every description, appeared as though the
heavens had literally rained flowers--flowers showered in every
direction. Evidently we were certain that flowers were to be one of
the prominent features witnessed in the grand demonstration. Every
house opening on the Corso was covered with bright streamers,
pennons, and flags of every size, shape, color, and hue--red, blue,
white, green, gold, purple, yellow, and pink. Every window was
festooned with flowers, banners, and like array. Every shop was
converted into gorgeous saloons, decorated with trees, garlands,
evergreens, resplendent in silver, crimson, and gold, filled with
hundreds of anxious spectators. Every nook and corner was made
bright by the sparkle of beautiful eyes, merry smiles and happy
faces. Thousands jostled on every side in representation of
monkeys, lions, tigers, soldiers, clowns, maniacs. Satanic deities
and every other deity credited to countless ages, helped to swell
the crowd wedging themselves between line upon line of carriages
four abreast. The general bombardment commenced on all sides was
truly an exciting scene. Grand assaults were made upon houses and
carriage with alike furious resistance; missiles of bonbons rose in
the air, volley upon volley; storms of flowers. Those seated in
windows and balconies made desperate onsets upon the passing
carriages. Hand to hand encounters now became general; monkeys
assailed lions; mamelukes returned the fire of gipsies; a grand
hurly-burly arose from every point in sight. Clouds fell from upper
balconies upon each side of the street as the crowds poured on in
incessant streams which became at intervals one moving mass of dust,
white as snow. Beautiful ladies, maidens and children, mingled in
the gay scene--all intent upon the same enjoyment. It is impossible
to convey the faintest idea of this grand display which is kept up
from early morning until half-past four o'clock, when the street is
cleared as by magic. How such a concourse of carriages and people
get into the adjoining nooks and piazzas in such a short time is
astonishing, while thousands still cling to the sidewalks of the
Corso. A chariot race is the next proceeding, when, within the
space of a few moments, the horses are in their places--the signal
given--the distance of the Corso gained--the race won.
This is the first day's outline of sport, which is followed in
successive order until the end of the season. Having already
lengthened this letter in twofold proportion, I must take room to
say that the festive scene instantly ceases as the solemn notes of
Ave Maria rises from the hundreds of steeples--the requiem for the
departing carnival.
I will not distract your attention with the palaces of the Cæsars,
the Cenci, St. Angelo, and the remains of antiquity still to be
seen here, but trust that when we meet again every wish that you
formerly expressed regarding our stay in Rome will be realized a
thousandfold.
Looking at the volume of this letter I feel quite ashamed, but
trust that absence and distance will help to plead my cause. Gerald
seems quite confident that his suggestion will also speak loudly in
my favor, and perhaps he is right. At least I hope so. Remember me
kindly to every one of the family, I shall mention none
particularly. Gerald expresses a wish not to be forgotten by you.
Now, dearest Mary, if this truly formidable missive weary you,
please deal gently with Gerald and
Your Loving Rosamond.
Lady Rosamond had given her friend some of the glimpses of her
experience in Rome, yet she had much more to relate on her arrival. Some
months would elapse before her husband would consider his health
sufficiently restored to return to his native land. At intervals he
seemed almost restored when a sudden relapse would cause a renewed
return of the symptoms attending his flattering disease. Still they were
hopeful that with the returning spring health would be restored the
patient invalid. Throughout the severe dispensation Gerald Bereford
manifested no irritation, no fretfulness, no complaining. He seemed to
be happy in appreciating the labors of his beautiful wife. On one
occasion, when she asked if he did not weary of his sickness, he quietly
replied:
"Darling Rosamond, it has shown that you are willing to sacrifice every
pleasure in devotion to one who can never fully repay such a debt of
gratitude. Do you think that I can try, my Rosamond?" exclaimed he,
pressing a fond kiss upon the lips of the pale but lovely woman, as she
sat beside him.
Ah! Gerald Bereford knew not that in these words there lay a hidden
meaning. Surely, and in a way unknown to both, will the debt be paid.