seen enough for one day, and that her mind refused to grasp anything
more. We usually find that this is quite time enough to spend in any
picture-gallery or museum, and I am inclined to think that people who
stay longer wear themselves out to no purpose.
Angela suggested that as we were so near the Church of Ara Cœli, it
would be well to go to see the wonderful Bambino. Ludovico prepared us
for some disappointment by telling us that the most interesting time
to visit this church is during the Epiphany, when the Bambino lies in
a manger and little children come here and recite poems in its honor.
But as a Christmas visit was only a remote possibility, we concluded to
climb up to this church, hung like an eagle's nest upon the precipitous
rock, and well named the "Altar of Heaven." Zelphine quite forgot her
fatigue when she read in her guide-book that it was in this church that
Edward Gibbon first conceived the idea of writing his "Decline and Fall
of the Roman Empire," while Ludovico, by way of giving us something
cheerful to think of, told us that at the foot of the steps Tiberius
Gracchus and Cola di Rienzi were both slain by their nobles. There is
a statue of Rienzi in the piazza below, and above is that wonderful
group of the horse-taming Dioscuri, your copies of which have always
interested me so much. A curious and most unromantic association with
these steps is that here the monks of the Ara Cœli, who were famous
dentists, used to perform their hideous but useful operations, out in
the open, before the eyes of the passer-by. It appears that the Romans
of this time were denied the alleviating circumstance of enduring their
miseries in private. Zelphine, who has a pleasant habit of counting her
blessings, finds just here another reason for offering up thanks that
she lives in this year of grace 1904 rather than in that ancient and
less comfortable period.
As the steps are many and the sun was hot we were warm and out of
breath when we reached the top, and were glad of the coolness and
peace that we found inside. I gave Angela an admonitory look before the
Bambino was displayed, fearing that she might do or say something to
hurt Ludovico's feelings. As it happened, however, he seemed to care
even less about it than we did, although he told us, with his usual
simplicity and directness, that "il Santissimo Bambino," as he calls
it, is carefully guarded, not on account of its rich clothing and
jewels, but because a woman once formed the design of appropriating
to herself the baby image and its benefits. "She had another bambino
prepared, of the same size and general appearance as this," said
Ludovico, looking at the fresh-colored, richly dressed doll. "She
pretended to be ill, and so got possession of the Santissimo. She
dressed the false image in the garments of the true Bambino, and sent
it back to Ara Cœli. That night the most remarkable thing happened:
the monks were awakened by a wild ringing of bells at the west door of
the church, and what should they find there but the little, shivering,
naked figure of the Santissimo Bambino, in the wind and rain! Of
course, the false bambino was sent back to its owner, and now the
Santissimo is never taken away from the church unattended. This is easy
enough, as the Bambino has its own carriage, coachman, and footman, and
makes its visits to the sick in great state."
I glanced at Angela. Amusement and incredulity were all too plainly
visible on that fair young face, so I hastened to suggest that we look
at some of the beautiful tombs. There are several by Donatello and the
Cosmati so exquisitely sculptured that they alone repay a visit to the
church. From the terrace outside we looked down on the Forum below us,
where to-day a great mass of blue iris flowers were waving and dancing
in the breeze under the very shadow of the three columns of the Temple
of Castor and Pollux.
Ludovico suggested our going to the Tarpeian Rock, which is part
of this precipitous hill, if we were not too tired. No, we were not
too tired; the many steps of the Ara Cœli seemed to have brought
positive refreshment to Zelphine, who announced herself ready for a
new start, and so, through delightful winding ways known only to the
initiated, Ludovico led us to the garden from which we looked down upon
the Tarpeian Rock.
Do you remember the picture in our school histories of Marcus Curtius
plunging into the abyss? I could see him, in my mind's eye, boldly
riding his white horse over the cliff into the depths of the chasm
below, until Zelphine reminded me that it was not from this rock that
Curtius made his fatal plunge, but over on the Forum, where the chasm
closed at once upon horse and rider. I cannot even find mention of our
old friend Marcus Curtius; he is now known as Mettius Curtius. Now the
edge of the precipice is so guarded by an iron railing that it would
be quite impossible in these days for any one to leap from the rock,
or for Donatello to push the monk over into the street below, as in
Hawthorne's tale. Mr. Julian Hawthorne says that it was to a moonlight
visit to the Tarpeian Rock in the good company of Miss Bremer that we
owe this scene in "The Marble Faun," the "most visibly tragic of my
father's writings." A pleasant-faced young woman who unlocked the gate
of the garden for us was evidently bewitched by Angela's charms, as she
did not take her eyes off her face from the moment that she saw her.
When we turned to leave the enclosure she broke from one of the trees
an exquisite branch of orange-blossoms, and gave it to Angela with a
charming grace, at the same time glancing over at Ludovico in a manner
that brought the color to his face. He laughed, evidently pleased, and
said a few words to her in Italian, after which she bestowed a smaller
cluster of the fragrant flowers upon him. Angela, all unconscious,
walked on, revelling in the rich perfume of these loveliest of
blossoms.
I went to sleep last night wondering what the sweet-faced custodian of
the grim rock had said to Ludovico, and what his reply had been, and so
fell to dreaming of a wedding; but Zelphine was the bride, not Angela,
despite her orange-blossoms, and the groom was a certain widower who
pays intermittent attention to Zelphine--intermittent because she will
not allow him to be a "regular steady," as one of our maids used to say
in speaking of her own suitor.
You have surely heard of Walter Leonard's devotion to Zelphine, which
is so much of an open secret among her friends that when subjects
for conversation fail, they fall back with ever fresh interest upon
speculations as to whether or not she will eventually accept him and
his family of small children. Angela and I have an idea that she left
home in order to avoid a crisis in her affairs, and when she looks sad
or tired, Angela says that remorse is preying upon her because of the
motherless condition of those hapless children. I did not tell Zelphine
about my dream, because it is bad luck to dream about a marriage.
You scorn all such fancies, I know, but she is really superstitious,
and I might injure Mr. Leonard's chances if I should talk just now.
Angela and I have our own fun out of the situation. She predicts
that he will appear in Venice, which surely would be an appropriate
place for a lover to make his entrance, and romantic enough to please
Zelphine. This is only idle talk, however, as she has never spoken of
the possibility of Walter Leonard's coming over; and pray do forget my
gossip. It is too late, and I am quite too tired to rewrite this part
of my letter. I know you of old, and so am sure that you will tell no
tales.
Sunday, March 27th.
This is a gloriously beautiful day. The Spanish Steps are brilliant in
the sunshine, with more flowers than usual on the stalls at the base.
As Sunday is a fête-day, the vendors do a thriving business. And how
cheap the flowers are! One may have all the roses one can carry, for a
franc or two! Yet, with the idea that there is no fixed price in Italy,
travellers are always to be seen at the stalls outdoing the Romans
themselves in their efforts to cheapen the flowers, while the merchant
volubly protests that his house will be desolated and his children in
rags if he sells his roses for a soldo less than the asking price. A
few artists' models are still to be found sunning themselves on the
marble steps or around the fountain of the Piazza di Spagna, but in
less brilliant array than one would desire, peasant dress being as
little worn in Rome as in Paris.
To go to St. Peter's seemed the thing of all others to do to-day, and
we found an accommodating tram waiting for us in the Piazza di Spagna.
They tell us that no one ever realizes the vastness of St. Peter's upon
a first visit. However this may be, it seemed immense to us, outside
and in. One notices first Bernini's great colonnades on each side
of the basilica, which, with its façade, form a hemicycle with the
Egyptian obelisk in the centre. Behind the church is the monotonous
mass of the Vatican buildings, while in the foreground the twin
fountains send up their spires of feathery spray. Small wonder that
the practical and thrifty German Emperor advised them to turn off the
water. "Turn them off now," he said, after admiring the beauty of the
fountains. "It's a pity to waste so much water!" But these fountains of
Maderno's have played untiringly, in sunlight and shade, by moonlight
and starlight, for nearly three hundred years. Everywhere in Rome
one hears the sound of flowing water from the many fountains. In the
Borghese Gardens up on the Pincio, in the Piazza di Spagna, down in
the Piazza Poli where the great Fountain of Trevi dashes continually,
throwing its _jets d'eau_ into the great basin beneath, over in the
Piazza delle Terme, near the railroad station--on all sides one hears
the refreshing sound of splashing, leaping water.
We wandered about the great basilica as if in a strange city, avoiding,
of course, the several chapels in which services were being held, and
stopping long before the Chapel of the Pietà, in which Michael Angelo's
beautiful marble of the Sorrowing Mother with the dead Christ upon her
knees is enshrined. From the gorgeous mosaics in Michael Angelo's dome
and from the rich and elaborate tombs of many popes we turned almost
with relief to the strong and simple Rezzonico monument, upon which
Canova has placed two great lions at the feet of Pope Clement XIII.,
while in sharp contrast is a graceful, youthful figure, the Genius of
Death, holding a torch reversed. Zelphine and I think this the most
beautiful example of Canova's work that we have seen anywhere. Another
of the monuments that interested us is that erected by George IV. to
the memory of the unfortunate princes of the house of Stuart, James
III., Charles Edward, and Henry, Cardinal of York.
Zelphine, who adores the Stuarts, almost wept over this tomb, although
she could not help smiling a bit at the high-sounding titles engraved
upon the monument to Maria Clementina Sobieski, the wife of the second
Pretender, whose name is here inscribed as "Queen of Great Britain,
France, and Ireland."
We both enjoyed Stendhal's trenchant comment upon the post-mortem
honors paid by the Hanoverian king to the Stuart princes: "George
IV., fidèle à sa réputation du _gentleman_ le plus accompli des trois
royaumes, a voulu honorer la cendre des princes malheureuses que de
leur vivant il eût envoyés à l'échafaud s'ils fussent tombés en son
pouvoir."
The temporary tomb of the late Pope is in this part of St. Peter's,
near the monument of Innocent III. The permanent resting-place of Leo
XIII. is to be in St. John Lateran; for this tomb Tadolini is preparing
a magnificent monument.
We drove from St. Peter's, by the Tiber, passing the Castle of St.
Angelo, where Ludovico took us yesterday to show us the pitiful little
cell in which poor Beatrice Cenci was imprisoned. We had already
seen her lovely, sad picture at the Barberini Palace. The exquisite,
haunting beauty of the Cenci portrait is quite indescribable. As
Charles Dickens says, "Through the transcendent sweetness and beauty of
her face there is something shining out that haunts me. I see it now as
I see this paper or my pen."
This afternoon we drove for an hour or more in the Borghese Gardens,
after which we went to the evening service at the American Church in
the Via Nazionale, which naturally looked somewhat cold and plain after
the gorgeous color and decoration of St. Peter's. It was, however,
restful and homelike to sit there and listen to the beautiful service
of our own church.
Zelphine says that Catholic visitors in Rome are especially fortunate,
as for them the path of duty and the path of pleasure lie side by
side, leading them always into the most beautiful churches and giving
them the satisfying combination of art and religion. I entirely agree
with her, having often felt that in a service in Westminster Abbey
an element of adventure was added to the act of devotion. I think it
was you who told me of a Scotchwoman who considered a service in the
abbey "among the images" too much of a diversion for a Sabbath day. I
should think that good Catholic travellers might have somewhat the same
feeling about a great ceremonial at St. Peter's.
In the Borghese Gardens, the shadows under the ilex-trees were most
lovely this afternoon, the sunshine filtering through the branches here
and there, flecking the green sward with spots of light, and bringing
out the color of the anemones which grow here in such profusion.
We could readily fancy Miriam and Donatello dancing in this sylvan
shade, although no vagrant musicians were waking the echoes among the
leafy coverts, no herdsman in goatskin breeches, no peasants from the
Campagna, or pretty _contadine_ appeared, to add a touch of local color
to the natural beauties of the scene.
VIII
VIA APPIA
Monday, March 28th.
Ludovico proposed that we should take the long-talked-of drive along
the Via Appia this beautiful afternoon. Knowing Angela's objection
to subterranean excursions, he discreetly said nothing about the
Catacombs, although I realized well that they were uppermost in his
mind, and felt that I might safely trust a bit of diplomacy to this
clever little Italian.
As we are living in the north-eastern part of Rome and the Via Appia is
in the southern part, leading toward the Pontine Marshes and ancient
Brundusium, we had a long drive across the city. We drove through the
Corso as far as the Piazza Colonna, with its towering column erected
by the Senate and the people in honor of your hero Marcus Aurelius, and
then by smaller streets and squares to the Porta Capena. Of this gate,
which is associated with so many interesting events, only fragmentary
ruins remain. Near it were once grouped temples of Mars and Hercules
and the tomb of the young sister of the Horatii, who was betrothed to
one of the Curiatii. Ludovico repeated the sad little story, which we
had all read in our school-days, of the girl coming out to meet her
brother Horatius at the Porta Capena. When she saw the cloak wrought by
her own hands borne by Horatius, she wept, as any other girl would have
done, knowing that her lover was dead; upon which the cruel Horatius
stabbed her to the heart, crying, "So perish the Roman maiden who shall
weep her country's enemy!"
To see the place where this sad scene was enacted and the site of the
grave of the hapless maiden made it seem as real as if it had occurred
last year instead of--how many hundred years ago? We are realizing, as
never before, what an old world this is. Even now, out in the Forum,
they are opening the graves of men and women who lived before Romulus,
as if the Rome of Numa and the Cæsars was not old enough for all
antiquarian uses!
The old Romans, like the ancient Egyptians, seem to have had no
shrinking from keeping death well in view, as this Via Appia, which
was the patrician cemetery of Rome, was also a military highway and
a pleasure-drive, and from it still branches a road leading to the
race-course. Indeed, there is nothing dismal about this "way of tombs,"
for the road is wide, paved with large blocks of stone, and flanked
by vineyards. On the right are the Baths of Caracalla, on the left
are the tombs of the Scipios, while the long bridge-like ruins of the
old aqueduct rise here and there above the level of the Campagna, and
beyond, framing all, are the mountains. Flowers are blooming along the
sides of the road, among the tombs and over them. Angela and Ludovico
gathered a large bunch of cyclamen and the purple lady's-slipper
orchids. Wherever there is an unsightly stone or a bit of broken wall,
Nature has generously covered it with a drapery of green vines or white
banksia roses.
Here, out in the sunshine and among the flowers, are the tombs of
the grand old heathen, while the good Christians sleep in the dismal
subterranean Catacombs. Is not this another example of the way in which
the ancient pagan city dominates the Rome of later times?
A little way beyond the fine tombs of the Scipios we passed through
the Arch of Drusus, with its equestrian statue and trophies, on whose
summit is still a bit of the aqueduct by which Caracalla carried water
to his baths. A little beyond the Porta San Sebastiano we came to the
small Church of Domine Quo Vadis. You may remember the story which led
to its foundation. During a great persecution of the Christians, under
Nero, some of St. Peter's converts and devoted friends besought him
not to expose his life by remaining in Rome. Peter finally listened
to their counsels and fled along the Appian Way; but about two miles
from the gate he was met by a vision of the Saviour, journeying towards
the city. Filled with amazement, Peter exclaimed, "Domine, quo vadis?"
"Lord, whither goest Thou?" To this question his Master replied, sadly,
"I go to Rome to be crucified a second time," and vanished. Peter,
accepting this as a sign that he was to submit to the sufferings that
menaced him, turned back to Rome and met his fate. Hence the little
yellow church of Domine Quo Vadis, which was built to mark the sacred
spot.
We left the carriage and entered the church, as Zelphine wished to
see the sacred footprints upon the stone pavement; but Ludovico told
her that those impressions were only copies, the originals being at
the Church of St. Sebastian. We walked on and on along the Via Appia,
glad to tread the same stones that had been pressed by the feet of St.
Peter, St. Paul, and so many great ones of the earth.
We were so much absorbed in the associations of the road, and had such
unbounded confidence in our young guide, that we did not even ask where
we were going, although I suspected that Ludovico was about to enact
his _coup d'état_ for Angela's benefit. Through a gateway shaded by
cypresses we followed him into a rose-garden, with a chapel to the
left and a booth opposite, where were displayed a number of odd and
discordant relics. Here Ludovico stopped to buy some tickets, and then
we descended many steps into darkness made somewhat visible by the
light of curious little spiral tapers, _cerini_, which we carried.
Light seemed to dawn upon Angela's mind when the taper was handed to
her at the entrance; she turned and shook her finger at Ludovico,
exclaiming, "The Catacombs!" I felt at first that it was not quite
fair to have beguiled the child here, against her will, to this dismal
home of the dead, which cannot fail to impress a sensitive nature.
Afterwards, however, Angela was so much interested in the little
chapels in which the early Christians worshipped, with the paintings
on the walls and the symbols of the fish, the dove, and the anchor over
many of the tombs, that she quite forgot her terror.
The guide explained that these Catacombs of St. Calixtus include
several columbaria, there being forty separate catacombs extending
under the city, covering, according to Michele de Rossi's calculations,
an area of 615 acres. The city of the dead is far greater than the
city of the living; but this is not to be wondered at, considering the
population of Rome under the Cæsars and the large number of converts to
Christianity.
We were surprised to find the air mild, not chill and damp as one
would expect in underground passages. Although there are wires for
electric lights in some of the corridors, the Catacombs are not lighted
by electricity. It was introduced five years ago, but was found to
be impracticable, as the wires were soon injured by rust; hence we
were spared this incongruity. Despite the many tales we had read of
travellers being lost in the Catacombs, we never once thought of the
danger, although our guide told us more than once that it would be well
for us to keep close together.
He took us into a chapel containing the tombs of some of the early
martyred popes, as St. Fabian, St. Lucius, and St. Sextus. In some of
these chapels, or cubicula, are beautiful inscriptions to Pope Damasus,
whose labor of love it was to restore and preserve these tombs of the
Christians. At the end of a long inscription over the door of one of
the largest of these sepulchral chambers, which records that here lie
heaped together a number of the holy ones, the good Pope has humbly
added:
"Here I, Damasus, wished to have laid my limbs,
But feared to disturb the holy ashes of the saints."
We then entered a chamber with an air-shaft above, like most of the
cubicula, where, on the walls, were a number of Byzantine paintings
of St. Urban, St. Cecilia, and a head of Christ. The guide told us
that this chamber contained the remains of St. Cecilia until they were
removed to the Church of Santa Cecilia in Trastevere. Without a word
of warning, Ludovico drew us across the room to a niche in the wall,
where we saw, lying upon her side, the loveliest of girlish figures.
The first impression, in the semi-obscurity, with all the light falling
on the recumbent figure, was that of a veiled woman asleep.
"Santa Cecilia!" said Ludovico, in a hushed voice. Zelphine bent
forward as if ready to fall on her knees, when the official guide broke
the reverent silence by reciting in a sing-song tone, but in quite
comprehensible English:
"This rich Roman lady was sentenced to death by the prefect of Rome
because she would not sacrifice to idols. After trying to smother the
lady in her own bath, but not succeeding, because the saints were
watching over her, a lictor was sent to cut off her head; but the
saints took the strength out of his arm and he only wounded her, after
which she lived three days preaching to the people. Step nearer and
you will see the wound on the lady's neck. It is partially covered by
a gold necklace."
In the sixteenth century the tomb of St. Cecilia was opened, and her
embalmed body was found, beautiful and perfect, as if asleep in her own
bed rather than lying in a tomb. Pope Clement III. and all Rome went to
the Catacombs to look upon the saint, and Stefano Maderno, the greatest
sculptor of his time, was called upon to model the marble statue of the
lovely sleeping saint. Maderno's original statue of St. Cecilia we had
seen in the Church of St. Cecilia in Trastevere, and also the artist's
inscription, in which he says that he has modelled her in the very same
posture of body as that in which she was found lying incorrupt in her
tomb. Beautiful as is the marble in the church, it failed to impress us
as did this replica in the appropriate setting of the cubiculum.
Tears were in our eyes as we turned away, and I heard Angela say to
Ludovico, in her softest tone, "It is the most real thing I have seen
in Rome!"
"Ludovico has good reason to be pleased with the success of his
strategy," whispered Zelphine, and then, wishing to carry away
undisturbed this exquisite memory of St. Cecilia, we made our way out
toward the open, where we found our carriage awaiting us.
We were all very subdued, for pleasure-seekers, and were silent as we
drove on past the vast tomb of Cæcilia, the daughter of Metellus and
the beloved wife of the younger Crassus. Above the inscription are
Gallic trophies which belonged to the elder Crassus, who was Cæsar's
legate in Gaul. The tomb itself, a great round tower seventy feet
in diameter, seems more like a fortress than a tomb, and we were not
surprised to learn that the monument of this noble Roman lady had been
used as a fortress in the thirteenth century.