one’s heart that he should offer so timidly a service so precious. We
spent the morning mousing about the church seeing all its treasures in
the mellow glow of the old man’s enthusiasm.
“The illustrious ones have heard, perhaps, of a certain English writer
who calls himself Ruskino?”
We said that we knew Ruskin’s books. He flushed with pleasure. “He was
my friend; more than thirty times he visited Lucca, and he never came
without making a sketch of the tomb of Ilaria.”
We go into the cathedral every day to look at Ilaria, where she sleeps
in marble effigy, flower crowned, immortally young and lovely, just as
Jacopo della Quercia, the sculptor, saw her, nearly five centuries ago.
The tombs of Lucca remind one of the memorial tablets of the Street of
Tombs in Athens. It is hard to say just where the resemblance lies; in
form and manner there is little in common, the resemblance is of the
subtler, deeper sort; a spiritual not a material likeness!
PALAZZO RUSTICUCCI, ROME, October 16, 1898.
We found our dear old palace very much as we had left it, save that
Ignazio, the gardener, had suddenly, and without orders, added one
hundred pots of flowers to the terrace. The difficulty and fatigue of
watering this hanging garden of Babylon sometimes seems more than J. and
I and Pompilia, our horticultural cook, can manage. Yet I cannot regret
the addition which promises many new delights,--chrysanthemums among
them. Pompilia asked many questions about what we had seen in our
wanderings; she cannot forgive us for not having driven out to Bagni di
Lucca! She tells me that she too is a great traveller.
“_Sa, Signora mia, ho viaggiato per tutto il mondo. Da Lucca a Firenze,
da Firenze a Lucca, da Lucca a Firenze, e poi a Roma!_ Know, mistress,
that I have travelled all over the world, from Lucca to Florence” (the
distance is about fifty miles), “from Florence to Lucca,” etc.
Our first visitor after our return to Rome was Sora Giulia, the
dark-eyed Jewess who keeps an antiquarian’s shop in the Borgo Nuovo, a
few doors away.
“Welcome home, Signora. I have brought you a few _occasioni_ (bargains);
a piece of lace, well, wait till you see it, _un oggetto unico_!”
Nena took Sora Giulia’s baby while the antiquarian untied her green
damask bundle of old lace and linen.
“Behold, _Signora mia_, this priceless flounce. How well it would become
you on a vesture of ceremony!”
She spread out with a caressing touch a deep lace flounce of Milan
point. It was indeed “an unique object.” The sacred letters IHS and all
the emblems of the Passion were wrought into it with wonderful freedom
of design,--the ladder, the cross, the mallet, and so on. It had
evidently been made for an ecclesiastic.
“It is truly a splendid piece of lace, Sora Giulia, but is it not known
to you that such a flounce may only be worn by a _sacerdote_?”
“_I preti sono poveri!_”
“Not all priests are poor. Show it to Don Marcello.”
“_Ma chè_--, he buys no longer, he has to sell. But you, Signora, you
are not like these others. _Eh dica, lei è veramente Christiana?_ (Say,
are you really a Christian?)”
Was not her eagerness _not_ to have me a Christian pathetically
significant? My mother remembers her Hebrew master, a scholarly Jew,
taking hurried farewells of her in order to get back to the ghetto
before the gates were shut at eight!
“I cannot buy this flounce. I could not wear it if I did.”
“_Per carità_, then look at this _reticella_.” (Literally “small net,” a
coarse white netting with designs worked in by hand.) “The _forestieri_
are mad about _reticelle_, they are buying them all up to make
table-cloths and pillow covers. Soon it will be impossible to find them.
I never saw a better piece, you shall have it at your own price. In
confidence, the _padrone di casa_ says if he is not paid his rent to-day
he will turn us out. What a bad season we have had! No travellers since
June. Those Florentine antiquarians put lies in the papers about there
being plague or cholera, or some such _porcheria_ in Rome, just to keep
the voyagers away from us. We make nothing; but we must eat and pay our
rent all the same! The _padrone_....”
“With respect, he is an infamous beast, they all are, _Madonna mia_!”
Nena broke in. When she took Sora Giulia’s part I knew that the
antiquarian was really in straits. We bought the _reticella_ for the sum
due the landlord, and Nena went downstairs to the baker’s shop to change
the bill.
“Sora Nena will tell you that I speak the truth. That brute of a
_padrone_ extorted her rent yesterday, took her last _centesimo_. What
is the result? I tell you, this morning Nena’s daughter had nothing to
eat for her breakfast but one raw lemon. In consequence, the child at
the breast has colic, which is not strange.”
“What about the child’s father?”
“He is a _muratore_ (mason), but he gets no work. Sora Nena gives him to
eat as well as his wife.”
Nena is a Venetian, and she takes snuff. She has other faults but I hear
oftenest of these from the other servants. Before we went to Roccaraso I
asked her if she had ever owned a silk dress. She laughed at the
question; “silks were not for the likes of her,” etc. In parting I gave
her a cast-off black satin, with rather peculiar wide stripes. The first
Sunday after our return Pompilia went to mass in the satin dress, and
poor pathetic little Nena in her old snuff-stained cotton gown. When I
asked an explanation, she said that she had sold the satin to the cook:
“Pompilia can afford to wear silk; I ask you, whom has she in the world
belonging to her? Some cousins, who send her a basket of flowers on her
_festa_! She puts every _soldo_ she can scrape together on her back.
Well, let that console her for being a _zitella_! “If you could have
heard the spiteful hiss of her _zitella_ (old maid). Nena has a
daughter, an idle son-in-law, and seven grandchildren to support, but
she pities Pompilia, who has only herself to think of!
“When the _forestieri_ come, you will recommend me to them?” said Sora
Giulia in parting. I can do so with a good conscience. If she guarantees
a candlestick to be silver, you may be sure it is not merely plated. If
a bargain is struck she will keep her side of it; as much cannot be said
of all her Christian confrères among antiquarians.
It is strange how the _antichità_ mania attacks people in Italy. Every
one we know collects some manner of junk. A friend of J.’s who goes in
for old coins was driving near Girgente, in Sicily, through the wildest,
most primitive country. A peasant digging in a field offered him a
handful of coins, moist with mud, just turned up with the spade.
They were all ancient Roman coins, copper or silver, familiar and not
particularly valuable, with the exception of one rare Greek goldpiece
which he bought for a large price. Afraid of being robbed, he took the
next boat for Naples, pushed on to Rome, where he had been passing the
winter, showed his treasure trove to an expert, and learned that there
were but three others known to be in existence: one in Berlin, another
in the British Museum, a third in a private collection. When he reached
London, he showed his coin to the gentleman in charge of the collection
at the British Museum. They compared it with the specimen in the case.
The Girgente coin seemed as good a specimen; as a last test it was put
under a powerful lens, which showed it to be a brand new imitation!
The Muse of Via Gregoriana, J. C., has a catholic taste and buys all
manner of things from empire furniture to silver lamps. Her last craze
is for peasant jewelry. She “acquires”--one does not buy
_antiquità_--every piece she can lay her hands on. Some of the designs
are excellent; the jewels are mostly flat rose diamonds, garnets, and
misshapen pearls set in silver. Out of half a dozen odd earrings she
will construct you a charming ornament, necklace, pendant, what not, and
sell it to you at a small profit, which she devotes to helping young
Roman musicians, several of whom owe their education to her. I call that
a pleasant combination, to make your hobby carry your charity.
I believe Rome is the best place in Europe to buy jewels, because
princes as well as peasants are continually throwing them on the market.
One day our jeweller, Signor Poce (he lives in a little shop in the
Corso, near the Piazza del Popolo), showed us a set of the finest
emeralds I have seen in years. He said they belonged to some great lady
who was obliged to part with them. That night we met those emeralds at
a ball! they were in the shop again the next morning! Don’t be too sorry
for the lady: she is a sensible English woman; and we happened to hear
that she has lately redeemed a long-neglected estate belonging to her
Roman husband, and is putting in modern improvements in the way of oil
and wine presses. It is the same with the poorer people. What you read
about the peasants parting with their precious possessions, furniture,
laces, jewels, is true, but it is only part of the truth; they are
selling them to buy better things--health and education! When you read
about the heavy taxes, remember what they pay for! What Italy has done
since 1870 is as wonderful as what France did in paying off the war debt
to Germany out of the farmers’ stockings. Reading and writing are better
than pearl earrings. The Tiber embankment, alone, cost the Romans a
pretty penny. It spoiled the picturesqueness of the river--the sloping
banks covered with trees and flowers must have been wonderful--and it
did away with the Roman fever! The river used to overflow its banks
every spring and to flood whole districts of the city. J. remembers
boats rowed by sailors going
[Illustration: _The Tiber, at the Ponte Nomantana_
From a photograph]
[Illustration]
about the Piazza Rotonda and along the Via di Ripetta, carrying bread to
the people in the submerged houses. When the river receded, “came the
famine, came the fever.” When I was in Rome for the first time, as a
girl, I had a bad case of old-fashioned Roman fever. Since my return, I
have seen Suora Gabriella, the dear nun who nursed me so faithfully (she
really saved my life) through that long dreadful illness. In speaking of
the character of the work done by the nursing sisterhood to which she
belongs, she said, “Since there is no more fever, the character of our
work has changed somewhat; we now take surgical cases!” The doctors and
hotel-keepers claim that Rome is the second healthiest city in Europe,
having the lowest death rate after London. If this is true, we owe it to
Garibaldi, for he it was who urged the Romans to build the Tiber
embankment,--their best monument to his memory.
October 25, 1898.
This morning, Maria, the porter’s wife, was announced. She had come on
“_ambasciata_” from the wife of the wine merchant opposite. “You
remember the poor little _gobbetto_ (hunch-back), Signora? the one who
has brought you so much luck, since that day when you rubbed his hump?”
“I remember him, yes; what of him?”
“He is very ill; he suffers much, cannot sleep, cannot eat. One sees all
his bones! His mother, poor woman, prays that you will ask the American
Marchesa who lives at the Palazzo Giraud Torlonia to lend her carriage
for the transportation of the _santo bambino_ (the holy child) from the
church of Santa Maria in Aracieli, to her house.”
“But why does she want the _santo bambino_ at her house?”
“After that blessed image visits his bedside, the poor _gobbetto_ will
either recover or find repose in death. It is too terrible to see him
suffer!”
“Is this thing which you tell me true?”
“It is most true, as you will see.”
I knew the poor crippled child, had one day taken him up in my arms.
Maria, seeing me, had supposed I knew the superstition that it is lucky
to touch the back of a _gobbo_.
“Will it be permitted to bring the _bambino_ to the house?”
“If a carriage can be sent of the proper style--there must be one
servant on the box and one to walk beside, there must be two horses; an
ordinary hired carriage from the piazza will not do.”
“If the Marchesa consents?”
“The _bambino_, attended by two priests, will be brought to the
_gobbetto’s_ bedside. Then the thing will soon be over for the poor
child--one way or the other!”
I went on the errand to my neighbor, Mrs. Haywood. (The Haywoods having
a title from the Vatican, she is called Marchesa by the poor people of
our quarter, but among her American friends she remains Mrs. Haywood.)
She is a kind woman and an excellent neighbor. I found her at home in
that splendid old Palazzo Giraud, built in 1503 (some say by the great
architect Bramante), occupied by Cardinal Wolsey when he was papal
legate. J.’s studio, by the way, is in one wing of this palace. Mrs.
Haywood gave me tea in the library, one of the finest rooms in Rome. It
has a balcony running around it, filled with rare books and manuscripts,
for Mr. Haywood is a great bibliophile.
I told her my “_ambasciata_.” Though she was kindly sympathetic, she
said “no” firmly, then explained. The Haywoods are the only people in
the Borgo (outside the Vatican) who keep a carriage. When they first
came to live here, they began by lending it whenever it was asked for,
to bring the _santo bambino_ to the sick. They soon found that, if they
ever wished to use their carriage themselves, they must make a hard and
fast rule to refuse all such requests. Knowing this, Maria and the
_gobbetto’s_ mother induced me to make the petition, on the chance that
the Marchesa might grant to a compatriot what she would deny them. When
it was found that my mission had failed, Maria, of the kind heart,
opened a subscription to pay for the hire of a suitable carriage. Every
member of our household, including Nena, has contributed to the fund.
“_Bisogna vivere a Roma coi costumi di Roma_,” says the Italian proverb,
“When you are in Rome do as Rome does!”
VIII
ROMAN CODGERS AND SOLITARIES
PALAZZO RUSTICUCCI, November 28, 1898.
To-day being the last Saturday in the month, Fra Antonio, the begging
friar, called for his _obolo_. I surprised him in the act of offering a
shabby horn snuff-box to Filomena. She had taken a pinch daintily
between a finger and thumb, and was folding it in a sheet of my best
Irish linen note paper.
“_Una presa di tabaco per Sora Nena_ (A pinch of snuff for Mrs. Nena),”
she explained. Poor Nena, little withered old woman, the servants’
drudge, it doesn’t matter about _her_ habits! Filomena, eighteen, rosy
as Aurora,--so pretty that young men make excuses to call at our old
green door to see her open it,--feared the shadow of suspicion that the
snuff was for her own use! Snuff is still taken in Italy by the old and
the old fashioned: it has the sanction of the clergy. In Rome, it is
thought hardly seemly for a priest to smoke, they nearly all use snuff;
indeed I have seen a priest take a sly pinch while officiating at the
altar. Snuff is the only luxury our monk Antonio knows. Do you blame J.
for sometimes keeping back a little of the money which we ought to give
the _frate_ for the general fund of the brotherhood, and investing it in
a packet of snuff for the old fellow’s particular comfort? I do not.
“_Frate_,” I said, “why did you become a monk?”
“Signora, the Madonna herself bade me take the vows.”
“You lead a happy life at the monastery?”
“Like others I have my troubles, mainly rheumatism.” (His poor old
veined feet looked cold in their sandals.)
“About those vows, now, how many are there?”
“They are three,” he counted them off on the knots of his rope girdle,
“poverty, obedience, chastity. Circumstances might conceivably release
me from the first and the second, but believe me, Signora,” he fixed an
earnest, rheumy eye upon me as he said it, “not even the Holy Father
himself could absolve me from the third vow.”
“_S’intende_ (One understands),” Filomena assented.
J. says we women folk all make a great fuss over the _frate_; during the
time old Santi (formerly the valet of Crawford _père_, ever since more
or less dependent on the family) was with us the _frate_ was rather
snubbed. Santi, for many years the majordomo of a rich monsignore,
scorned our dear Fra Antonio. He always forgot to serve the modest gift
the old monk brought us every month, a head of _barba di cappucini_
(capuchin’s beard) a sort of curly lettuce the monks raise in their
garden. Santi was a character for you: he had an unctuous ecclesiastical
manner suggestive of sacerdotal ceremonial. When he passed a plate of
steaming _fettuccie fatt’ in casa_ (ribbons made in the house, home-made
macaroni) one was reminded of an acolyte handling a smoking censer. He
was not with us long; though he was as handsome as a king, with the most
distinguished manners, we were relieved to be rid of him; he who had
served cardinals and princes of the Church seemed out of place waiting
on our small table. I have recognized Santi’s sacerdotal manner in
Cardinal Rampolla’s servants and in the attendants of other churchmen
we have visited.
Cardinal Rampolla lives over there at the Vatican. The day we called on
him we merely had to walk across the Square of St. Peter and knock at
his door, as it were! We were astonished at being taken up to his
apartment in an elevator--an elevator at the Vatican seems an
anachronism! Living not a stone’s throw from the Vatican we are
strangely aware of the mighty heart of the Catholic Church, and have
grown sensitive to its pulsations, whether stirred by events at the
Philippines or in the New York elections! Cardinal Rampolla is in
constant attendance upon the Pope. A friend of ours once invited him to
his villa outside Rome.
“It would rest your Eminence to get away for a few hours!” he urged.
“_Aimè, magari potessi_ (If I only could)!” sighed the cardinal. Our
friend says the sigh and look showed a depth of weariness he had never
suspected in the dark energetic man at the helm. They say the cardinal
has only slept outside the Vatican once since the day the Pope appointed
him secretary of state years ago! That was on the night of his mother’s
death; the next day he came back to the cold palace with its hundreds of
rooms inhabited by four thousand men and not one woman or child. I often
wonder about the dusting of those endless halls, chapels, and suites of
apartments!
Do you suppose that vast hive of celibates is the magnet that draws to
Rome its hoards of codgers and solitaries? I assure you their habits may
be studied better here than anywhere in the world. Though many of the
Roman codgers are more or less connected with the Vatican, there are
scores who have no relations with it, Protestants, Greek Orthodox,
Hebrews, and the like.
Rome must have been more picturesque when the Pope took his airing on
the Pincio, instead of walking and driving inside the walls of the
Vatican garden, as he does now. In those days the whole populace went
down on their knees whenever he appeared. Then the cardinals wore their
splendid vermilion robes every day: they must have made a joyful note of
color in the landscape! Now they wear sad black gowns, save at a _festa_
or some special function. Driving out into the Campagna on a fine
afternoon, one is almost sure to pass a sober, closed carriage drawn by
a pair of fat black horses, waiting by the roadside; a little farther
on, one meets some cardinal walking with his secretary. It is not
etiquette for a cardinal to walk in the streets of Rome while their head
remains the Prisoner of the Vatican; they must drive about to do their
errands, and get their airing outside the walls. Isn’t that fascinating?
But in society the cardinals often wear their pretty bright robes.
At the Haywoods’ the other day, a cardinal came to tea; our host and
hostess met him at the entrance, each carrying a lighted waxen torch.
All the guests (except heretics like ourselves) courtesied, kotowed, and
kissed his ring. It is not etiquette for a lady to be decolletée when a
churchman is to be of the party. It is just these endless
traditions--“links with the past”--which make Roman society to us
shadowless-moneyed-above-board republicans so absorbingly interesting!
Social life here is rich in shadows and lights, full of color and
imagination; no wonder the novelists never tire of using it for a
background.
Cardinal Hohenlohe, a true prince of the Church, keeps high state in
the historic Villa d’Este, among his wonderful cypresses, fountains,
terraces, and frescoed casinos. He surrounds himself with artists and
musicians, pays little heed to any gentle hint from the Vatican, and is
one of the most interesting persons one can see: his independence--he is
said to be a Rosminian--is due to his position as well as to his
character; he is of the Prussian royal family, cousin to the Emperor
William, and is possessed of a free and liberal spirit not easy to
control. The Hohenlohes are older than the Hohenzollerns, and a friend
of the cardinal’s once said to a friend of mine, that his Eminence in a
moment of wrath, for some reason or other, cried out: “Ugh!
Hohenzollern! They once were considered highly honored with the post of
holding the stirrup for the head of my house.” Was not that nice and
spiteful?
The cardinal’s banishment from Tivoli was extremely diverting. Two
English noblewomen of high rank, in Rome for the winter, wished to meet
all the distinguished personages possible. A dinner was arranged for
them by Baron Blanc, to which Cardinal Hohenlohe was invited. After all
the other guests had assembled, the company was thrown into a flutter
by the arrival of Crispi. Instead of Hohenlohe’s withdrawing (the usual
etiquette when exalted Black and White personages meet by chance in
society) they all went merrily in to dinner together. There were no end
of toasts, Prince and Patriot pledged each other in Baron Blanc’s best
wine. Mr. Stillman, who was of the company, remarked that it was
pleasant to see Eminences and “Eccellenzas” drinking each other’s
health. A neighbor at table whispered to the dauntless Stillman, “How
imprudent you are!” (As if he was ever anything else!)
Other people were proved to have been imprudent. The next day the great
prince cardinal was summoned to an interview with the Pope. What passed
between them gossip does not say, but the cardinal packed his bag and
left that afternoon for Perugia, where he passed three months in exile.
Another imprudence of the cardinal’s was his lending the Villa d’Este
for a political meeting in the campaign of Guido Baccelli (son of the
famous physician) who was at that time running for parliament. The story
of the poisoned figs used by Zola in his novel “Rome” was founded on a
sad incident at the Villa d’Este. Some poisoned food meant for the
cardinal was eaten by his steward, who died, I have been told, before
his very eyes.[3]
Codgers, both clerical and lay, are usually shy; you must not let them
know they are under observation if you hope to learn anything of their
habits. In spite of this, they are distinctly social and gregarious,
while the solitary lives and often dies alone. I asked one old gentleman
codger--an American--who often drops in on his way to his browsing
ground, the Vatican Library--what road first led him to Rome.
“The _via vegetaria_,” he said; “Rome has the finest vegetable market in
the world.” He may be right, I certainly know no city where vegetables
are so cheap, various, and good, but it seemed an odd reason for
settling here.
“Artichokes,” he went on, “are no dearer than potatoes; as to
_finocchio_, it is cheaper than bread.”
“Why could we not raise _finocchio_ at home?” I asked.
“Wait till we grow poor and thrifty,” he said, “till we drink sheep’s
milk, eat _capretto_ (kid) and miscellaneous fungi; then we shall find
the way to turn wild American fennel into domestic Italian _finocchi_.”
_Finocchi_ is a root something like celery; it has the same crisp
crunchiness, though it tastes rather like aniseed; the Romans eat it
raw, we prefer it braised and served with black butter. Why not try to
raise it in your garden? If you succeed in introducing a new vegetable,
you will acquire merit in the eyes of every dinner-ordering wretch in
the land. Fennel and kid. Two new dishes! There is a chance for you to
reach every heart between Maine and Alaska!