_NATURAL VARIETIES OF NOSES AND EXPRESSIONS_
Cæsar admitted before his conscience that he had no plans, or the
slightest idea what direction to take. The Cardinal, no doubt, did not
feel any desire to know him.
Cæsar often proceeded by more or less absurd hypotheses. “Suppose,” he
would think, “that I had an idea, a concrete ambition. In that case it
would behoove me to be reserved on such and such topics and to hint
these and those ideas to people; let’s do it that way, even though it be
only for sport.”
Preciozi was the only person who was able to give him any light in
his investigations, because the guests at the hotel, most of them, on
account of their position, thought of nothing but amusing themselves and
of giving themselves airs.
Cæsar discovered that Preciozi was ambitious; but besides lacking an
opening, he had not the necessary vigour and imagination to do anything.
The abbé spoke a macaronic Spanish, which he had learned in South
America, and which provoked Cæsar’s laughter. He was constantly saying:
“My friend,” and he mingled Gallicisms with a lot of coarse expressions
of Indian or mulatto origin, and with Italian words. Preciozi’s dialect
was a gibberish worthy of Babel.
The first day they went out together, the abbé wanted to show him divers
of Rome’s picturesque spots. He led him behind the Quirinal, through
the Via della Panetteria and the Via del Lavatore, where there is a
fruit-market, to the Trevi fountain. “It is beautiful, eh?” said the
abbé.
“Yes; what I don’t understand,” replied Cæsar, “is why, in a town where
there is so much water, the hotel wash-basins are so small.”
Preciozi shrugged his shoulders.
“What types you have in Rome!” Cæsar went on. “What a variety of noses
and expressions! Jesuits with the aspect of savants and plotters;
Carmelites with the appearance of highway men; Dominicans, some with
a sensual air, others with a professorial air. Astuteness, intrigue,
brutality, intelligence, mystic stupor.... And as for priests, what a
museum! Decorative priests, tall, with white shocks of hair and big
cassocks; short priests, swarthy and greasy; noses thin as a knife;
warty, fiery noses. Gross types; distinguished types; pale bloodless
faces; red faces.... What a marvellous collection!”
Preciozi listened to Cæsar’s observations and wondered if the
Cardinal’s nephew might be a trifle off his head.
“Point out what is noteworthy, so that I may admire it enough,” Cæsar
told him. “I don’t care to burst out in an enthusiastic phrase for
something of no value.”
Preciozi laughed at these jokes, as if they were a child’s bright
sayings; but at times Cæsar appeared to him to be an innocent soul, and
at other times a Machiavellian who dissembled his insidious purposes
under an extravagant demeanour.
When Preciozi was involved in some historic dissertation, Cæsar used to
ask him ingenuously:
“But listen, abbe; does this really interest you?”
Preciozi would admit that the past didn’t matter much to him, and then
with one accord, they would burst out laughing.
Cæsar said that Preciozi and he were the most anti-historic men going
about in Rome.
One morning they went to the Piazza del Campidoglio. It was drizzling;
the wet roofs shone; the sky was grey.
“This intrusion of the country into Rome,” said Cæsar, “is what gives
the city its romantic aspect. These hills with trees on them are very
pretty.”
“Only pretty, Don Cæsar? They are sublime,” retorted Preciozi.
“What amazement I shall produce in you, my dear abbé, when I tell you
that all my knowledge in respect to the Capitol reduces itself to the
fact that some orator, I don’t know who, said that near the Capitol is
the Tarpeian Rock.”
“You know nothing more about it?”
“Nothing more. I don’t know if Cicero said that, or Castelar, or Sir
Robert Peel.”
Preciozi burst into merry laughter.
“What statue is that?” asked Cæsar, indicating the one in the middle of
the square.
“That is Marcus Aurelius.”
“An Emperor?”
“Yes, an Emperor and a philosopher.”
“And why have they made him riding such a little, potbellied horse?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“He looks like a man taking a horse to water at a trough. Why does he
ride bare-back? Hadn’t they invented stirrups at that period?”
Preciozi was a bit perplexed; before making a reply he gazed at the
statue, and then said, confusedly:
“I think so.”
They crossed the Piazza Campidoglio and went out by the left side of the
Palazzo del Senatore. Down the Via dell’ Arco di Severo, a street that
runs down steps to the Forum, they saw a large arch that seemed sunk in
the ground, and beyond, further away, another smaller arch with only one
archway, which arose in the distance as if on top of the big arch. A
square yellow tower, burned by the sun, lifted itself among the ruins;
some hills showed rows of romantic cypresses, and in the background the
blue Alban Mountains stood out against a grey sky.
“Would you like to go down to the Forum?” said the abbé. “Down there
where the stones are? No. What for?”
“Do you wish to see the Tarpeian Rock?”
“Yes, man. But explain to me what this rock was.”
Preciozi got together all his information, which was not much.
They went by the Via Monte Tarpea, and came back by the Via della
Consolazione.
“They must have thrown people who were already dead off the Tarpeian
Rock,” said Cæsar, after hearing the explanation.
“No, no.”
“But if they threw them down alive, the majority of those they chucked
down here would not have died. At most they would have dislocated an
arm, a leg, or a finger-joint. Unless they chucked them head first.”
Preciozi could not permit the mortal effects of the Tarpeian Rock to be
doubted, and he said that its height had been lessened and the level of
the soil had risen.
After these explanations Cæsar found the spot of Roman executions
somewhat less fantastic.
“How would you like to go to that church in the Forum?” said Preciozi.
“I was going to propose that we should go to the hotel; it must be
lunch-time.”
“Come along.”
_THE CHURCH AND COOKING_
Cæsar had Marsala and Asti brought for the abbe, who was a gourmet.
While Preciozi ate and drank with all his jaws, Cæsar devoted himself
to teasing him. The waiter had brought some cream-puffs and informed
them that that was a dish every one ate that day. Laura and Preciozi
praised the puffs, and Cæsar said:
“What an admirable religion ours is! For each day the church has a saint
and a special dish. The truth is that the Catholic Church is very wise;
it has broken all relations with science, but it remains in harmony with
cooking. As Preciozi was a moment ago saying with great exactitude,
this close relation that exists between the Church and the kitchen is
moving.”
“I said that to you?” asked Preciozi. “What a falsehood!”
“Don’t pay any attention,” said Laura.
“Yes, my dear abbé,” retorted Cæsar, “and I even believe that you added
confidentially that sometimes the Pope in the Vatican gardens, imitating
Francis I after the battle of Pavia, is wont to say sadly to the
Secretary of State: ‘All is lost, save faith and... good cooking.’”
“What a _bufone!_ What a bufone!” exclaimed Preciozi, with his mouth
full.
“You are giving a proof of irreligion which is in bad taste,” said
Laura. “Only janitors talk like that.”
“On such questions I am an honourary janitor.”
“That’s all right, but you ought to realize that there are religious
people here, like the abbé....”
“Preciozi? Why, he’s a Voltairean.”
“Oh! Oh! My friend....” exclaimed Preciozi, emptying a glass of wine.
“Voltaireanism,” continued Cæsar. “There is nobody here who has faith,
nobody who makes the little sacrifice of not eating on Fridays in Lent.
Here we are, destroying with our own teeth one of the most beautiful
works of the Church. You will both ask me what that work is....”
“No, we will not ask you anything,” said Laura, waving a hand in the
air.
“Well, it is that admirable alimentary harmony sustained by the Church.
During the whole year we are authorized to eat terrestrial animals, and
in Lent aquatic ones only. Promiscuous as we are, we are undoing the
equilibrium between the maritime and the land forces, we are attacking
the peaceful rotation of meat and fish.”
“He is a child,” said Preciozi, “we must leave him alone.”
“Yes, but that will not impede my Spaniard’s heart, my Cardinal’s
nephew’s heart from bleeding grievously.... Shall we go to the café,
Abbé?”
“Yes, let us go.”
_THE MARVELLOUS BIRD OF ROME_
They left the hotel and entered a café in the Piazza Esedra. Preciozi
made a vague move to pay, but Cæsar would not permit him to.
“What do you wish to do?” said the abbé.
“Whatever you like.”
“I have to go to the Altemps palace a moment.”
“To see my uncle?”
“Yes; then, if you feel like it, we can take a long walk.”
“Very good.”
They went towards the centre of the town by the Via Nazionale. It was a
splendid sunny afternoon.
Preciozi went into the Altemps palace a moment; Cæsar waited for him in
the street. Then, together they went over to opposite the Castel Sant’
Angelo, crossed the river, and approached the Piazza di San Pietro. The
atmosphere was wonderfully clear and pure; the suave blue sky seemed to
caress the pinnacles and decorations of the big square.
Preciozi met a dirty friar, dark, with a black beard and a mouth from
ear to ear. The abbe showed no great desire to stop and speak with him,
but the other detained him. This party wore a habit of a brown colour
and carried a big umbrella under his arm.
“There’s a type!” said Cæsar, when Preciozi rejoined him.
“Yes, he is a peasant,” the abbe said with disgust.
“If that chap meets any one in the road, he plants his umbrella in his
chest, and demands his money or his... eternal life.”
“Yes, he is a disagreeable man,” agreed Preciozi.
They continued their walk, through the Piazza Cavallegeri and outside
the walls. As they went up one of the hills there, they could see the
façade of Saint Peter’s continually nearer, with all the huge stone
figures on the cornice. “The fact is that that poor Christ plays a sad
rôle there in the middle,” said Cæsar.
“Oh! Oh! My friend,” exclaimed the abbé in protest.
“A plebeian Jew in the midst of so many princes of the Church! Doesn’t
it strike you as an absurdity?”
“No, not absurd at all.”
“The truth is that this religion of yours is Jewish meat with a Roman
sauce.”
“And yours? What is yours?”
“Mine? I have not got past fetichism. I worship the golden calf. Like
the majority of Catholics.”
“I don’t believe it.”
They looked back; they could see the dome of the great basilica shining
in the sun; then, to one side, a little viaduct and a tower.
“What a wonderful bird you keep in this beautiful cage!” said Cæsar.
“What bird?” asked Preciozi.
“The Pope, friend Preciozi, the Pope. Not the popinjay, but the Pope
in white. What a very marvellous bird! He has a feather fan like a
peacock’s tail; he speaks like the cockatoo, only he differs from them
in being infallible; and he is infallible, because another bird,
also marvellous, which is called the Holy Ghost, tells him by night
everything that takes place on earth and in heaven. What very
picturesque and extravagant things!”
“For you who have no faith everything must be extravagant.”
Cæsar and Preciozi went on encircling the walls and reading the various
marble tablets set into them, and ascended to the Janiculum, to the
terrace where Garibaldi’s statue stands.
_POOR TINDARO_
“But, are you anti-Catholic, seriously?” asked Preciozi. “But do you
believe any one can be a Catholic seriously?” said Cæsar. “I can, yes;
otherwise I shouldn’t be a priest.”
“But are you a priest because you believe, or do you make believe that
you believe because you are a priest?”
“You are a child. I suppose you hate the Jesuits, like all Liberals.”
“And I suppose you hate Masons, like all Catholics.”
“No.”
“No more do I hate Jesuits. What is worse, I read the life of Saint
Ignatius Loyola at school, and he seemed to me a great man.”
“Well, I should think so!”
“And the Jesuits have some power still?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes, man. They give the Church its direction. Oh, nobody fools the
Society. You can see what happened to Cardinal Tindaro.”
“I don’t know what did happen to him,” said Cæsar, with indifference.
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, Cardinal Tindaro decided to follow the inspirations of the
Society and made many Jesuits Cardinals with the object that when Pope
Leo XIII died, they should elect him Pope; but the Jesuits smelled the
rat, and when Leo XIII got very ill, the Council of Assistants of the
Society had a meeting and decided that Tindaro should not be Pope, and
ordered the Austrian Court to oppose its veto. When the election came,
the Jesuit Cardinals gave Tindaro a fat vote, out of gratitude, but
calculated not to be enough to raise him to the throne, and in case it
was, the Austrian Cardinal and the Hungarian had their Empire’s veto to
Tindaro’s election in their pocket.”
“And this Tindaro, is he intelligent?”
“Yes, he is indeed; very intelligent. Style Leo XIII.”
“Men of weight.”
“Yes, but neither of the two had Pius IX’s spirit.” “And the present
one? He is a poor creature, eh?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know....”
“And the Society of Jesus, is it on good terms with this Pope?”
“Surely. He is their creation.”
“So that the Society is really powerful?”
“It certainly is! Without a doubt! It has a pleasant rule, and
obedience, and knowledge, and money....”
“It has money too, eh?”
“Has it money? More than enough.”
“And in what form? In paper?”
“In paper, and in property, and industries; in steamship companies, in
manufactories....”
“I would make an admirable business manager.”
“Well, your uncle, the Cardinal, could get you put in touch with the
Society.”
“Is he a friend of theirs?”
“Close as a finger-nail.”
Cæsar was silent a moment, and then said:
“And I have heard that the Society of Jesus was, at bottom, an
anti-Christian organization, a branch of Masonry....”
“_Macché_!” exclaimed the abbé. “How could you believe that? Oh, no, my
friend! What an absurdity!”
Then, seeing Cæsar burst into laughter, he calmed himself, wondering if
he was making fun of him.
They went down the hill, where the monument to Garibaldi flaunts itself,
to the terrace of the Spanish Academy.
The view was magnificent; the evening, now falling, was clear; the sky
limpid and transparent. From that height the houses of Rome were spread
out silent, with an air of solemnity, of immobility, of calm. It
appeared a flat town; one did not notice its slopes and its hills; it
gave the impression of a city in stone set under a glass globe.
The sky itself, pure and diaphanous, augmented the sensation of
withdrawal and quietude; not a cloud on the horizon, not a spot of smoke
in the air; silence and repose everywhere. The dome of St. Peter’s had
the colour of a cloud, the shrubberies on the Pincio were reddened by
the sun, and the Alban Hills disclosed the little white towns and the
smiling villas on their declivities.
Preciozi pointed out domes and towers; Cæsar did not hear him, and he
was thinking, with a certain terror:
“We shall die, and these stones will continue to shine in the sunlight
of other winter evenings.”
_THE VATICAN FAMILY_
Making an effort with himself, he threw off this painful idea, and
turning to Preciozi, asked:
“So you believe that I might have made a nice career in the Church?”
“You! I certainly do think so!” exclaimed Preciozi. “With a cardinal for
uncle, _che carriera_ you could have made!”
“But are there enough different jobs in the Church?”
“From the Pope to the canons and the Papal Guards, you ought to see
all the hierarchies we have at the Vatican. First the Pope, then the
Cardinals in bishop’s orders, next, the Cardinals in priest’s
orders, then the Cardinal’s in deacon’s orders, the Secretaries,
the _compisteria_ of the Holy College of Cardinals, the Patriarchs,
Archbishops, Bishops, and the Pontifical Family.”
“Whose family is that? The Pope’s?”
“No; it is called that, as who should say, the General Staff of the
Vatican. It is made up of the Palatine Cardinals, the Palatine Prelates,
the Participating Privy Chamberlains, the Archbishops and Bishops
assisting the Pontifical throne, the Domestic Prelates, who form
the College of Apostolic Prothonotaries, the Pontifical Masters of
Ceremonies, the Princes Assisting the Throne, the Privy Participating
Cape-and-Sword Chamberlains, the Privy Numbered Cape-and-Sword
Chamberlains....”
“Cape-and-Sword! Didn’t I tell you that that poor Christ plays a sorry
part on the façade of Saint Peter’s?” exclaimed Cæsar.
“Why, man?”
“Because all this stuff about capes and swords doesn’t seem very fitting
for the soul of a Christian. Unless, of course, the knights of the sword
and cape do not use the sword to wound and the cape for a shield, but
only wield the sword of Faith and the cape of Charity.... And haven’t
you any gentlemen of Bed-and-Board, as they have at the Spanish Court?”
“No.”
“That’s a pity. It is so expressive,... bed and board. Bed and board,
cape and sword. Who wouldn’t be satisfied? One must admit that there is
nobody equal to the Church, and next to her a monarchy, when it comes
to inventing pretty things. That is why it is said, and very well said,
that there is no salvation outside of the Church.”
“You are a pagan.”
“And I believe you are one, too.”
“_Macché_!”
“What comes after all those Privy Cape-and-Sword Chamberlains, my dear
Abbe?”
“Next, there is the Pontifical Noble Guard, the Swiss Papal Guard,
the Palatine Guard of Honour, the Corps of Papal Gendarmes, the Privy
Chaplains, the Privy Clerics, the suite of His Holiness. Next come the
members of the Palatine Administration, the Congregations, and more
Secretaries.”
“And do the Cardinals live well?”
“Yes.”
“How much do they make?”
“They get twenty thousand lire fixed salary, besides extras.”
“But that is very little!”
“Certainly! It used to be much more, at the time of the Papal States.
Out of their twenty thousand lire they have to keep a carriage.”
“Those that aren’t rich must have a hard time.”
“Just imagine, some of them have to live in a third-floor apartment.
There have been some that bought their red robes second-hand.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Are those robes so expensive?”
“Yes, they are expensive. Quite. They are made of a special cloth
manufactured in Cologne.”
“Are there many Cardinals who are not of rich families?”
“A great many.”
“Well, you people have ruined that job.”
They went to Trastevere and there they took the tram. Preciozi got
out at the Piazza Venezia and Cæsar went on to the end of the Via
Nazionale.
_A TALK ABOUT MONEY_
“Where have you been?” asked Laura, on seeing him.
“I’ve been taking a walk with the abbe.”
“It’s evident that you find him more interesting than us women.”
“Preciozi is very interesting. He is a Machiavellian. He has a candour
that is assumed and a dulness that is assumed. He plays a little comedy
to get out of paying, at the café or in the tram. He is splendid. I
think, if you will pardon me for saying so, that the Italians are damned
close.”
“People that have no money are forced to be economical.”
“No, that isn’t so. I have known people in Madrid who made three pesetas
a day, and spent two treating a friend.”
“Yes, out of ostentation, out of a desire to show off. I don’t like
pretentious people.”
“Well, I believe I prefer them to skinflints.”
“Yes, that’s very Spanish. A man wasting money, while his wife and
children are dying of hunger.... The man who won’t learn the value of
money is not the best type.”
“Money is filthy. If it were only possible to abolish it!”
“For my part, son, I should like less to have it abolished than to have
a great deal of it.” “I shouldn’t. If I could carry out my plans, all I
should need afterwards would be a hut to live in, a garret.”
“Our ideas differ.”
“These people that need clothes and jewels and perfumes fairly nauseate
me.... All such things are only fit for Jews.”
“Then I must surely be a Jewess.”