_DON CALIXTO UNDERSTANDS_
Kennedy was anxious that Cæsar should turn into the good road. The good
road, for him, was art.
“At heart,” the Englishman informed him, “I am one of those Brothers of
the Esthetic Doctrine who irritate you, and I must instruct you in the
faith.”
“I am not opposed to your trying to instruct me.”
The two went several times to see museums, especially the Vatican
museum.
One day, on leaving the Sistine Chapel, where they had had a long
discussion on the merits of Michelangelo, Cæsar met the painter Cortés,
who came to speak to him.
“I am here with a gentleman from my town, who is a Senator,” said
Cortés. “A boresome old boy. Shall I introduce him?”
“All right.”
“He is an old fool who knows nothing about anything and talks about
everything.”
Cortés presented Cæsar to Don Calixto García Guerrero, a man of some
fifty-odd, Senator and boss of the province of Zamora.
Don Calixto invited Cæsar and Kennedy to dine with him. The Englishman
expressed regrets, and Cæsar said he would go. They took leave of
Cortés and Don Calixto, and went out to the Piazza di San Pietro.
“I imagine you are going to be bored tomorrow dining with that old
countryman of yours,” said Kennedy. “Oh, surely. He has all the signs
of a soporific person; but who knows? a type like that sometimes has
influence.”
“So you are dining with him with a more or less practical object?”
“Why, of course.”
The next evening, Cæsar, in his evening clothes, betook himself to an
hotel in the Piazza di Spagna, where Don Calixto García Guerrero was
staying. Don Calixto received him very cordially. He doubtless knew that
Cæsar was nephew to Cardinal Fort and brother to a marchioness, and
doubtless that flattered Don Calixto.
Don Calixto honoured Cæsar with an excellent dinner, and during dessert
became candid with him. He had come to Rome to put through his obtaining
a Papal title. He was a friend of the Spanish Ambassador to the Vatican,
and it wouldn’t have cost him any more to be made a prince, a duke, or
a marquis; but he preferred the title of count. He had a magnificent
estate called La Sauceda, and he wanted to be the Count de la Sauceda.
Cæsar comprehended that this gentleman might be fortune coming in the
guise of chance, and he set himself to making good with him, to telling
him stories of aristocratic life in Rome, some of which he had read in
books, and some of which he had heard somewhere or other.
“What vices must exist here!” Don Calixto kept exclaiming. “That is why
they say: _‘Roma veduta, fede perduta.’_”
Cæsar noted that Don Calixto had a great enthusiasm for the
aristocracy; and so he took pains, every time he talked with him, to mix
the names of a few princes and marquises into the conversation; he also
gave him to understand that he lived among them, and went so far as to
hint the possibility of being of service to him in Rome, but in a
manner ambiguous enough to permit of withdrawing the offer in case of
necessity. Fortunately for Cæsar, Don Calixto had his affairs all
completely arranged; the one thing he desired was that Cæsar, whom he
supposed to be an expert on archeological questions, should go about
with him the three or four days he expected to remain in Rome. He had
spent a whole week making calls, and as yet had seen nothing.
Cæsar had no other recourse but to buy a Baedeker and read it and learn
a lot of things quite devoid of interest for him.
The next day Don Calixto was waiting for him in a carriage at the door,
and they went to see the sights.
Don Calixto was a man that made phrases and ornamented them with many
adverbs ending in -ly.
“Verily,” he said, after his first archeological walk in Rome, “verily,
it seems strange that after more than two thousand years have passed,
all these monuments should still remain.”
“That is most true,” replied Cæsar, looking at him with his impassive
air.
“I understand why Rome is the real school for learning, integrally, both
ancient and modern history.”
“Most certainly,” agreed Cæsar.
Don Calixto, who knew neither Italian nor French, found a source of
help, for the days he was to spend in Rome, in Cæsar’s friendship,
and made him accompany him everywhere. Cæsar was able to collect and
preserve, though not precisely cut in brass, the phrases Don Calixto
uttered in front of the principal monuments of Rome.
In front of the Colosseum, his first exclamation was: “What a lot of
stone!” Then recalling his role of orator, he exclaimed: “The spirits
are certainly daunted and the mind darkened on thinking how men could
have sunk to such abysses of evil.”
“Don Calixto is referring to those holes,” thought Cæsar, looking at
the cellars of the Circo Romano.
From the Colosseum the carriage went to the Capitol, and then Don
Calixto asserted with energy:
“One cannot deny that, say what you will, Rome is one of the places most
fertile in memories.”
Don Calixto was an easy traveller for his _cicerone_. He far preferred
talking to being given explanations; Cæsar had said to him: “Don
Calixto, you understand everything, by intuition.” And being thus
reassured, Don Calixto kept uttering terrible absurdities.
One day Don Calixto went to see the Pope, in evening clothes and
with his abdomen covered with decorations, and he asked Cæsar if
a photographer couldn’t take his picture in the act of leaving the
carriage, so that the photograph would have Saint Peter’s as a
background.
“Yes, I think so. Why not? The only thing will be that the photographer
will charge you more.”
“I don’t mind that. Could you arrange it for me?”
“Yes, man.”
What Don Calixto desired was done.
“How did the Pope impress you?” Cæsar asked him as he came out
“Very favourably, very favourably indeed.”
“He has a stupid face, hasn’t he?”
“No, man, not at all. He is like a nice country priest. His predecessor
was no doubt more of a diplomat, more intelligent.”
“Yes, the other seemed more of a rogue,” said Cæsar, laughing at the
precautions Don Calixto took in giving his opinion.
The proofs of the photographs came in the evening, and Don Calixto was
enchanted with them. In one of them you could see the Swiss guard at
the door, with his lance. It was splendid. Don Calixto would not permit
Cæsar to go to his hotel, but invited him for dinner; and after dinner
told him he was so indebted that he would be delighted to do anything
Cæsar asked him.
“Why don’t you make me a Deputy?” said Cæsar, laughing.
“Do you want to be one?”
“Yes, man.”
“Really?”
“I should think so.”
“But you would have to live in Madrid.”
“Certainly.”
“Would you leave here?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Then, not another word, we will say no more about it. When the time
comes, you will write to me and say: ‘Don Calixto, the moment has
arrived for you to remember your promise: I want to be a Deputy.’”
“Very good. I will do it, and you shall present me as candidate for
Castro... Castro... what?”
“Castro Duro.”
“You will see me there then.”
“All right. And now, another favour. There is a Canon from Zamora here,
a friend of mine, who came on the pilgrimage and who desires nothing
so much as to see Saint Peter’s and the Catacombs rather thoroughly. I
could explain everything to him, but I am not sure about the dates. Will
you come with us?”
“With great pleasure.”
“Then we shall expect you here at ten.”
“That will be fine.”
Sure enough, at ten Cæsar was there. Don Calixto and his friend the
Canon Don Justo, who was a large gentleman, tall and fleshy and with a
long nose, were waiting. The three got into the carriage.
“I hope this priest isn’t going to be one of those library rats who
know everything on earth,” thought Cæsar, but when he heard him make a
couple of mistakes in grammar, he became tranquil.
_THEODORA AND MAROZIA_
As they passed the Castel Sant’ Angelo, Cæsar began to tell the story
of Theodora and her daughter Marozia, the two women who lived there and
who, for forty odd years, changed the Popes as one changes cooks.
“You know the history of those women?” asked Cæsar.
“I don’t,” said the Canon.
“Nor I,” added Don Calixto.
“Then I will tell it to you before we get to Saint Peter’s. Theodora, an
influential lady, fell in love with a young priest of Ravenna, and had
him elected Pope, by the name of John X. Her daughter Marozia, a young
girl and a virgin, gave herself to Pope Sergius III, a capricious,
fantastic man, who had once had the witty idea of digging up Pope
Formosus and subjecting him, putrefied as he was, to the judgment of
a Synod. By this eccentric man Marozia had a son, and afterwards was
married three times more. She exercised an omnipotent sway over the Holy
See. John X, her mother’s lover, she deposed and sent to die in prison.
With his successor, Leo VI, whom she herself had appointed Pope, she
did the same. The following Pope, Stephen VII, died of illness, twenty
months after his reign began, and then Marozia gave the Papal crown to
the son she had had by Sergius III, who took the name of John XI. This
Pope and his brother Alberic, began to feel their mother’s influence
rather heavy, and during a popular revolt they decided to get Marozia
into their power, and they seized her and buried her alive in the _in
pace_ of a convent.”
“But is all this authentic?” asked the Canon, completely stupefied.
“Absolutely authentic.”
The Canon made a gesture of resignation and looked at Don Calixto in
astonishment.
While Cæsar was telling the story, the carriage had passed down a
narrow and rather deserted street, called Borgo Vecchio, in whose
windows clothes were hanging out to dry, and then they came out in
the Piazza di San Pietro. They drove around one edge of this enormous
square. The sky was blue. A fountain was throwing water, which changed
to a cloud in the air and produced a brilliant rainbow.
“One certainly wonders,” said Cæsar, “if Saint Peter’s is not one of
the buildings in the worst taste that exist in the world.”
They got out in front of the steps.
“Your friend is probably well up on archeological matters?” asked
Cæsar.
“Who? Don Justo? Not in the least.”
Cæsar began to laugh, went up the steps ahead of the others, lifted the
leather curtain, and they all three went into Saint Peter’s. _THERE IS
NO PERFORMANCE_
Cæsar began his explanations with the plan of the church. The Canon
passed his hand over all the stones and kept saying:
“This is marble too,” and adding, “How expensive!”
“Do you like this, Don Calixto?” Cæsar asked.
“What a question, man!”
“Well, it is obviously very rich and very sumptuous, but it must give a
fanatic coming here from far away the same feeling a person gets when
he has a cold and asks for a hot drink and is given a glass of iced
orgeat.”
“Don’t let Don Justo hear you,” said Don Calixto, as if they ought to
keep the secret about the orgeat between the two of them.
They came to the statue of Saint Peter, and Cæsar told them it is the
custom for strangers to kiss its foot. The Canon piously did so, but
Don Calixto, who was somewhat uneasy, rubbed the statue’s worn foot
surreptitiously with his handkerchief and then kissed it.
Cæsar abstained from kissing it, because he said the kiss was
efficacious principally for strangers.
Then they went along, looking at the tombs of the Popes. Cæsar was
several times mistaken in his explanations, but his friends did not
notice his mistakes.
The thing that surprised the Canon most was the tomb of Alexander
VII, because there is a skeleton on it. Don Calixto stopped with most
curiosity before the tomb of Paul III, on which one sees two nude women.
Cæsar told them that popular legend claims that one of these statues,
the one representing Justice, is Julia Farnese, sister of Pope Paul
III, and mistress of Pope Alexander VI; but such a supposition seems
unlikely.
“Entirely,” insisted the Canon gravely; “those are things invented by
the Free Thinkers.”
Don Calixto allowed himself to say that most of the Popes looked like
drum-majors.
Don Justo continued appraising everything he saw like a contractor.
Cæsar devoted himself to retailing his observations to Don Calixto,
while the Canon walked alone.
“I will inform you,” he told him, “that on Saturday one may go up in
the dome, but only decently dressed people. So a placard on that door
informs us. If by any chance an apostle should re-arise and have a
fancy to do a little gymnastics and see Rome from a height, as he would
probably be dirty and badly dressed, he would get left, they wouldn’t
let him go up. And then he could say: ‘Invent a religion like the
Christian religion, so that after a while they won’t let you go up in
the dome.’”
“Yes, certainly, certainly,” replied Don Calixto. “They are absurd. But
do not let the Canon hear you. To be sure, all this does not look very
religious, but it is magnificent.”
“Yes, it is a beautiful stage-setting, but there is no performance,”
said Cæsar.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Don Calixto.
“That this is an empty place. It would have been well to build a temple
as large and light as this in honour of Science, which is humanity’s
great creation. These statues, instead of being stupid or warlike Popes,
ought to be the inventor of vaccination or of chloroform. Then one could
understand the chilliness and the fairly menacing air that everything in
the place wears. Let people have confidence in the truth and in work,
that is good; but that a religion founded on mysteries, on obscurities,
should build a bright, challenging, flippant temple, is ridiculous.”
“Yes, yes,” said Don Calixto, always preoccupied in keeping the Canon
from hearing, “you talk like a modern man. I myself, down in my heart,
you know.... I believe you follow me, eh?”
“Yes, man.”
“Well, I think that all this has no transcendency.... That is to say....”
“No, it has none. You may well say so, Don Calixto.”
“But it did have it. That cannot be doubted, can it? And a great deal.
This is undeniable.”
_IT IS A MAGNIFICENT BUSINESS CONCERN_
“It was really a magnificent business concern,” said Cæsar. “Think
of monopolizing heaven and hell, selling the shares here on earth and
paying the dividends in heaven! There’s no guarantee trust company or
pawn-broker that pays an interest like that. And at its height, how many
branches it developed! Here, in this square, I have a friend, a Jewish
dealer in rosaries, who tells me his trade is flourishing. In three
weeks he has sold a hundred and fifty kilos of rosaries blessed by the
Pope, two hundred kilos of medals, and about half a square kilometre of
scapulars.”
“What an exaggeration!” said Don Calixto.
“No, it is the truth. He is glad that these things, which he considers
accursed, sell, because after all, he is a liberal and a Jew; the only
thing he does, if he can, to ease his conscience, is to get ten per
cent. profit on everything, and he says to himself: ‘Let the Catholics
worry!’”
“What tales! If the Canon should hear you!”
“No, but all this is true. As my friend says: Business is business. And
he has made me take notice that when the Garibaldini come here, they
spend the price of a few bottles of Chianti, and then they sleep in any
dog-kennel, and spend nothing more. On the contrary, the rich Catholics
buy and buy... and off go his kilos of rosaries and of medals, his tons
of veils for visiting the Pope, his reams of indulgences for eating
meat, and for eating fish and meat, and even for blowing your nose on
pages of the Bible if you like.”
“Do not be so disrespectful.”
When the Canon had made sure of all the square metres of marble there
are in Saint Peter’s they went out into the square again. Cæsar
indicated the heap of irregular edifices that form the Vatican.
“That ought to be the Pope’s room,” said Cæsar, pointing to a window,
at random. “You must have been there, Don Calixto?” “I don’t know.
Really,” he said, “I haven’t much idea where I was.”
“Nor has he any idea how he went,” thought Cæsar, and added: “That is
the Library; over there is the Secretary of State’s apartment; there is
where the Holy Office meets”; and he said whatsoever occurred to him,
perfectly tranquilly.
They took their carriage, and as they passed a shop for objects of
religion, Don Calixto said to the Canon:
“What do you say to this, Don Justo? According to Don Cæsar, the
proprietors of the shops where they sell medals, are Jews.”
“Bah! that cannot be so,” replied the Canon roundly.
“Why not?”
“Bah!”
“Why should it shock you?” exclaimed Cæsar. “If they sold Jesus Christ
alive, why are they not to sell him dead?”
“Well, I am glad to know it,” Don Justo burst forth, “because I was
going to buy some medals for presents, and now I won’t buy them.”
Don Calixto smiled, and Cæsar understood that the good Canon was taking
advantage of the information to save a penny.