ROMAN DAYS
When Irma awoke on her first morning in Rome, she felt that one of her
real desires was gratified. She was in the city she most wished to see.
Looking at her watch she found it was too early for breakfast, and she
did not care to go down ahead of the others in this new, strange hotel.
So, seated in an easy-chair, she tried to recall some of the incidents
of her journey of the day before, the five hours' ride that had seemed
long, on account of the heat. The country through which they passed had
been interesting, though she had seen few of the picturesque peasants
working in the fields that she expected to see on every side. In the
distance, however, she had had glimpses of snow-clad mountains, and
occasionally on a hill a monastery or castle, or even a small walled
town.
Then across a vast plain to the right was the unmistakable dome of St.
Peter's. Yes, she could write home that at the first sight of Rome her
heart had beaten quicker. After the sunny ride from the station through
crowded streets all, even the indefatigable Uncle Jim, had been tired,
too tired, after unpacking, to do anything but rest, until at five
o'clock they had gone to the large hotel near by for afternoon tea.
"This isn't Rome," Aunt Caroline had said, as they sat there over their
tea and cakes, listening to the music. "It is the Waldorf-Astoria, and
these people moving about are largely Americans. To-morrow we shall see
Rome."
"To-day is to-morrow," murmured Irma, in her easy-chair, "and I wonder
what we shall see first in Rome. I am sure I should never know where to
begin."
Aunt Caroline decided for her. Then when they first set out, she would
not tell her just what they were to see until they had mounted the steps
of an old casino; after passing through a little courtyard,--all that
remained of the once fine Rospigliosi garden.
"Look up," cried Aunt Caroline, as they stood in the large salon hung
with pictures, and there on the ceiling, more beautiful than any
reproduction, Irma saw the familiar Aurora, the godlike auburn-haired
vision and the spirited horses: Apollo seen in a strong yellowish light,
and the attendant hours in robes shading from blue to white, and from
green to white, with reddish browns in the draperies of the nymph
nearest him, and Aurora herself, a lovely figure, scattering flowers in
his path.
In the beautiful gallery, with its carvings and paintings, there were
other fine pictures, but as she went away Irma still remembered only the
Aurora.
The warm sun beat on their heads as they re-entered their carriage. "The
Roman summer has begun," said Aunt Caroline, "though it is only May. We
must accustom ourselves now to a daily siesta and save our strength; but
first for letters."
A rapid drive brought them to their bankers, opposite the Spanish
Steps. Irma recognized the place immediately from pictures she had seen,
and while Aunt Caroline went inside for letters, she ran across the
piazza to buy a bunch of roses from one of the picturesque flower girls
gathered on the lower steps. But when, on the house at the right-hand
corner, she read an inscription stating that in this house John Keats
had died, she immediately unfolded her camera. She was so interested in
her photograph, that when she saw her aunt standing by the carriage she
recrossed the street without the flowers.
"Here are letters for all of us," said Aunt Caroline, "even for Marion;
two for him, the first he has had, poor boy!"
"Aunt Caroline," asked Irma, for the first time since they sailed
venturing to put the question, "why do you say 'poor boy' when you speak
of Marion?"
Aunt Caroline, who usually answered questions so quickly, was silent for
so long that Irma wondered if her audacity had offended her. Then she
replied gravely, "Marion has had a most unhappy experience. It is hard
to say yet whether he is to be blamed or pitied. Until he is ready to
talk about it, your uncle and I prefer not to speak on the subject, even
with Marion himself. But when the right time comes, you shall know all
about it."
With this Irma, for the present, had to be content. But she realized
that the idle remarks of her acquaintance at Cava had some foundation in
fact. At _dejeuner_ Aunt Caroline gave Marion his letters, and Irma
noticed that his face reddened as he looked at the envelopes, and that
then he put them unopened in his pocket. This she thought a strange way
of treating his first home letters. But then Marion was a strange boy.
Irma herself had impatiently torn open her own letters even while in the
carriage, and had partly read Gertrude's before reaching her hotel.
"We miss you awfully," she wrote, "and Lucy and I hope you won't be so
taken up with that other girl that you'll forget all about us."
"She hadn't received my Azores letter about Marion," mused Irma, "when
she wrote that. I am sure I wish that Marion were a girl instead of such
a queer kind of boy."
"You remember," continued Gertrude, "how jealous you used to be of
Sally? Yes, you were, though you wouldn't admit it; well that's the way
I feel about your Marian. But even if I am jealous, I do hope that you
look better than when you left home, and that you are having a perfectly
stunning time. I suppose you will be in Rome when you get this, and I
wonder if you have seen the Queen--I mean Margherita. I have a
photograph of her that I love, so don't dare come back without seeing
her so you can tell me if she is like it. No matter if she hasn't
invited you to call, just leave your card, and perhaps they will let you
in accidentally. We miss you terribly at school. Until we are called up
to recite we never know whether our translations are right. I wonder if
you find the old inscriptions in Rome more fun than Caesar. We've just
had a week of early warm weather, and we girls have decided to let John
Wall and George Belman fight for the head of the class."
"The letter sounds just like Gertrude," said Irma, as she finished, "and
though it has no news, it makes home seem much nearer."
"Yet you sighed when you finished it; you mustn't let us think you are
homesick," and Aunt Caroline patted Irma's shoulder, as they entered the
house together.
"There's only one thing for to-day," said Uncle Jim, after _dejeuner_,
as they waited for the carriage. "There are said to be three hundred and
sixty-five churches in Rome, and if you intend to see them all, you must
begin at once with the largest and most important."
"But I don't intend to see them all," expostulated Irma, "nor a tenth of
them."
"Then you must begin with St. Peter's just the same. You have been in
the Eternal City now nearly twenty-four hours without visiting St.
Peter's. Such a thing is unheard of and will bring disgrace on us all.
Ah, here's the carriage, and your reform will begin."
"Talk of floods in the Tiber," cried Irma, as they drove along the bank
of the historic stream. "A little river like that could never do any
damage. It could not be energetic enough to overflow its banks,
especially when it's so fenced in."
"Even in modern times the embankment has sometimes failed to keep it in
place," said Uncle Jim, "and in its three miles of wanderings the yellow
Tiber is sometimes hard to manage. There, there, doesn't that please
you?" and Irma answered with an exclamation of delight, glancing beyond
the bridge to the other side, where she had her first view of the Castle
St. Angelo, Hadrian's tomb, the antique circular structure around which
clusters so much history.
But their horses were quick, and their driver did not stop for a long
view; and after a turn or two they were soon crossing the sunny, paved
piazza in front of St. Peter's, with its obelisk and fountain.
"This is to be only the most general view. You must come again some day
when there is a great ceremony, when you can see various dignitaries;
now you are merely to get a first impression."
"A first impression!" cried Irma. "Can I put it into words? It's a
tremendous building; I shall never see another as large, and yet, it
doesn't seem too large. What a great man the architect was!"
"I have been reading up a little to-day," said Marion, "so things are
fresh in my mind. I won't pretend I'll remember them to-morrow, but it's
true that this is not the first church on the spot. In the beginning
there was a circus of Nero's here, where that beautiful emperor was in
the habit of torturing Christians to death. There's a tradition that St.
Peter himself was burned here, and so Constantine built the first St.
Peter's over the spot. Perhaps we can go down into the tomb to-day."
"But this isn't Constantine's church?" There was a decided note of
interrogation in Irma's voice. Perhaps it would have been better for her
not to ask the question, for Marion's reply was in the nature of a snub.
"Any one can see that this St. Peter's is comparatively new. It was
begun by Julius II in the first part of the sixteenth century, and
Bramante probably made the original plans."
"Why, I thought Michelangelo----"
"Yes, my dear," interposed Uncle Jim, "in the end Michelangelo did come
to the rescue of the first plan. For after Bramante died, leaving the
building far from completed, some of his successors made changes that
affected the beauty of the building. I believe the dome was largely the
result of Michelangelo's skill."
"It took long enough to finish it!" exclaimed Marion, who had been
looking at his guidebook. "It was not consecrated until 1626, more than
a hundred years after Bramante's death."
"Just six years after the landing of the Pilgrims," added Irma.
"To compare small things with great," said Uncle Jim, with a laugh.
"Which is which?" asked Irma, and for the moment no one answered.
"Perhaps you don't care for guidebook information. But up to the end of
the seventeenth century, St. Peter's had cost about fifty million
dollars, and it now takes about eighteen thousand dollars a year to
maintain it."
"The salary of one of our ambassadors for a year," interpolated Irma.
"Don't laugh," she cried, "that's the way I always try to remember
things."
"Then," continued Marion, "perhaps you will remember the height of the
dome, four hundred and thirty-five feet from the cross to the pavement,
is twice that of Bunker Hill Monument."
"We are getting into the realm of useless knowledge," protested Uncle
Jim, "and as this is but a bird's-eye view, we need only remember the
beautiful proportions of the dome and the grandeur of the whole. Yet
there are one or two things to see now. I must point out Canova's tomb
of Clement XIII, and over there, by the door leading to the dome, you'll
find Canova's monument to the last of the Stuarts. You ought to go over
there and shed a tear or two, Irma, for you doubtless have the usual
school girl sentimentality for the Stuarts. There are busts of the Old
Pretender and his two sons."
"Guidebook information would probably be as useful as that of a
misguided guide," said Irma, refusing to express herself about the
Stuarts.
"Twenty-nine altars and one hundred and forty-eight columns," read
Marion.
"Come," said Uncle Jim, "don't listen to him. I can show you something
better worth seeing," and he led her to the nave, where he showed her in
the pavement the round slab of porphyry on which the emperors were
formerly crowned.
"Why, Charlemagne, of course," began Irma, and then she reddened. For
Marion was standing near, and she suddenly realized that Charlemagne had
been dead eight hundred years before St. Peter's was consecrated.
"Oh, it was in Constantine's church that Charlemagne was crowned, but
though this slab is older than the present St. Peter's, I doubt that he
or his earlier successors stood on it, and best of all, I doubt that
Marion can inform us," he concluded in a whisper.
When at last the four turned toward the door, Irma noticed the people
about her more than she had on entering. Bareheaded peasants were
walking about in groups; laboring men, who had stolen an hour from work,
bowed before various altars. Tourists of all nations were studying
mosaic pictures, sculptured tombs, or were gazing at the priests in rich
vestments and the altar boys in one of the chapels where there was a
service. Here an old woman hobbled along, and there was a mother with
two or three awestruck children. There were two or three soldiers in
uniform, and several long-coated priests, visitors evidently from
outside Rome.
"It is the People's Church," said Aunt Caroline, "the church of the
people of the whole world," she added. "There may not be as many
languages as there are people in this large building, but I'll warrant a
dozen nations are represented here."
The fifteenth century bronze doors of St. Peter's amused Irma, with
their curious mingling of Christian and pagan subjects, Europa and the
bull, Ganymede, as well as scenes directly from the scriptures. She had
a chance to admire her favorite Charlemagne, whose statue on horseback
and one of Constantine were on either side of the entrance.
"Over there," and Uncle Jim pointed to the left, "is the German
cemetery, which Constantine originally filled with earth from Mt.
Calvary, and made the first Christian burying ground. We have as little
time for that to-day as for the sacristy with its treasures, or the
chapels with their pictures and sculptures. There is just one other
important thing to see before we reach our hotel. Wake up, _cocchiere_,
here we are."
As they drove between the colonnades away from St. Peter's and then
along the Tiber bank, Uncle Jim called their attention to the new Rome
rising on every side.
"It is the Rome of the masses," he said. "Many of these tall apartment
houses are occupied by people of very moderate means. And see that great
public building across the river! It is as ugly as some of our own city
halls."
Their coachman now took a turn through narrow streets, crowded with
people, to Aunt Caroline's disgust. "There may be all kinds of diseases
floating about here."
But hardly had her protest been heard, when they drove up in front of a
portico that Marion recognized at once. "The Pantheon! We were thinking
so much of the narrow streets that we did not see where we were."
"Yes," responded Uncle Jim, "the Pantheon. He brought us the shortest
way. I suppose you know this is the only ancient building in Rome. Walls
and vaulting are the same as in the time of Hadrian. It goes back even
farther than Hadrian, for Augustus's son in law, Agrippa, founded the
temple, dedicated probably to the gods of the seven planets. When
paganism died, it had no use for many years until Phocas the Tyrant
presented it to the Pope, and it was dedicated to the Christian religion
in 604."
"You can't mention anything happening in our country just then," said
Aunt Caroline, turning to Irma.
"I might, but I won't, though I do remember that this was several
hundred years earlier than our Leif Ericson," she retorted. "Uncle Jim,
you did very well, even though you had to turn to your notebook."
"I'll admit that I had read up a few figures for this occasion, you and
Marion sometimes put me so to the blush. But what do you think of it?"
For a full minute Irma was silent as she looked around the vast
interior. "I am afraid," she began, "I am afraid that I like it better
than St. Peter's. In some way it seems grander."
"You needn't be afraid; older and wiser persons have been heard to say
the same thing. A circular building is always impressive, and no
interior in the world has finer proportions than this. In some ways it
isn't what it once was. The bronze casings of part of the walls one of
the popes once stripped off to make cannon for St. Angelo, and in the
eighteenth century the beautiful marbles of the attic story above were
covered with whitewash, but nothing can destroy the beautiful
proportions."
"Don't tell us what they are," urged Aunt Caroline. "It would destroy
half the effect to hear what it is in feet and inches."
"There's just one thing Irma ought to know, since she quite scorns a
guidebook now. That open aperture in the centre of the dome that looks
like a small hole is thirty feet across. It is the only way of lighting
the building."
"What do they do when it rains?" asked Irma.
"Why, they let it rain."
"Marion," exclaimed Aunt Caroline, "if you are willing to repeat so aged
and infirm a joke as that, you must be feeling better."
Marion glanced toward Irma, but she made no sign as to whether or not
she, too, scorned the joke.
"Twenty-eight wagon loads of bones," she was saying.
"Yes, my dear, it was dedicated to Santa Maria ad Martyres, and
naturally this was regarded as a more fitting place than the Catacombs
for their final interment. Yet the sacredness of the place didn't
prevent Constans II from stripping the gilt tiles from the dome to use
in Constantinople. But now you are to look at only two tombs on your way
out, this of Victor Emanuel, which is always covered with wreaths, and
over there Raphael's tomb--only a passing glance at each--and notice the
wonderfully beautiful marbles of the pavement. It would repay you
sometime to study them, and the--run, my dear, ask your aunt to hurry,"
he concluded hastily.
"We shall have time for the Corso," said Uncle Jim, as they drove off.
But the Corso proved disappointing to Marion and Irma.
"It is neither wide nor long, and why people with fine carriages and
footmen should enjoy driving here at the end of a pleasant spring
afternoon I can't understand," complained Marion. "Why, it's so crowded
that there's no particular pleasure in being here."
"That's why most people are driving here, to see and be seen; that's
part of the fun of living for the idler Italians, and as they can't sit
about in piazzas like their countrymen and women a few grades below
them, exchanging nods from a carriage is the next best thing. And you
can't deny that the shop windows are attractive."
"It's almost like driving for pleasure on Washington Street, in Boston,"
said Irma, scornfully, "only it's a little less crowded, and there are
no surface cars."
"Though you speak sarcastically, young lady, just now I won't attempt to
stand up for Il Corso," retorted Uncle Jim.
"It doesn't begin to compare with Fifth Avenue," said Marion.
"It doesn't pretend to, young patriot. I simply brought you here to do
as the Romans do fine afternoons. Some day you'll drive on the Pincian
at the fashionable hour, and after that I'd like to hear your American
comparisons."
"But where in the world can you find a street short as Il Corso with
more associations with great men? Over there's the house where Shelley
wrote 'The Cenci,' and Goethe's home in Rome is not far away. A little
off at one side you'll find Donizetti's house, and on the other Sir
Walter Scott's, and just ahead of us is the Bonaparte Palace, where
Madame Letitia spent her sad later years. You hardly have to turn out of
your way to find the remains of old temples, and there in the Piazza is
the Marcus Aurelius Column."
"Oh, it's inter--," but with the word unfinished, Marion put his hand to
his hat as if to bow to some one in a passing carriage. He did not
really bow, however, and the others noticed that he reddened deeply.
"That looked like the fairy godfather!" cried Irma.
"Whom I consider a myth," responded Uncle Jim.
But Marion said nothing.
Irma's first week in Rome seemed to pass almost as quickly as her first
day. Though she had been sightseeing constantly, she still had not seen
the Colosseum, the Forum, or the Vatican treasures. Each day was not
long enough. In the morning she usually visited some gallery with her
aunt. But in the warmer hours, from twelve to three, they rested. Some
object of interest and a drive took the later afternoon, and by evening
all were too tired to do anything but sit about and compare experiences
with one another or with their hotel acquaintances.
"I haven't forgotten your advice," wrote Irma in a long letter to her
mother, "to remember clearly at least one or two things from each
gallery. In the Borghese there is Canova's beautiful statue of Pauline,
Napoleon's sister, and Titian's Holy and Profane Love, and in the
Colonna that enormous ceiling painting--I almost broke my neck looking
up at it--of the Battle of Lepanto, where some Prince Colonna fought,
and some wonderful ivory carvings, one of them, in a few square inches,
shows all the figures of Michelangelo's Last Judgment. Then in the Doria
is Velasquez' Pope Julius X, in his red robes, and some Claude Lorraines
that I liked.
"Then I loved Domenichino's Sybil, in the Borghese, and I can never
forget the Saint Sebastians I have seen. It may be wicked to laugh at a
martyr, but it is almost wickeder for artists to make a good man look
like a pincushion stuck full of arrows. The Doria Palace is the
handsomest of all, with its gilded furniture and fine ceilings and
polished floors. How gorgeous it must have looked when a ball was given
there in the old days. I'd like to have seen the private apartments and
the Colonna gardens. They say it was from a building in the Colonna
Gardens that Nero watched Rome burning. On certain days these galleries
are free, but generally you pay admission to a regular ticket taker in a
gilt-banded cap. I wonder if the princes who own these palaces make
money by showing their pictures, or if public spirit leads them to open
their houses.
"One day Marion and I went to the Lateran where the popes lived before
they had the Vatican, and please tell Tessie that the first thing we
looked at was the Scala Sancta, or Holy Stairs, that they say were in
Pontius Pilate's house in Jerusalem, over which Christ once walked. On
this account people must go up and down them on their knees. But it is
only on Holy Week that many do this. There are twenty-eight marble
steps, although all you can see, as you look through the narrow door, is
the wooden covering that protects them. The Empress Helena,
Constantine's mother, brought them here. Tessie used to be interested in
these Holy Stairs on account of a picture in one of her Sunday-school
books, and she will be glad to know I have seen them.
"Everything around the Lateran reminds one of Constantine. St. John
Lateran has the site of a church he founded, and near it is the
Baptistery where he was baptized. The font is green basalt, and there
are beautiful porphyry columns and lovely gold mosaics on a blue ground.
"Opposite, in the piazza, is an obelisk Constantine brought from the
Temple of the Sun at Thebes, and set up in the Circus Maximus. Three or
four hundred years ago they found it in three pieces buried under ruins,
and decided to place it here. Uncle Jim says there are more obelisks
here than in all the rest of the world, and people who study hieroglyphs
find Rome a better place than Egypt.
"Marion is good company, and often wishes to see just the same thing
that I do, and then sometimes he doesn't; and I must say he always seems
to suit himself. He knows a great deal. He has usually studied with
private tutors and he has read everything. But he won't talk about his
family. I don't even know whether he has any brothers or sisters.
"He was splendid the other day when we went to the Capitoline Museum,
from the minute we began to walk up the broad stairs toward the statue
of Marcus Aurelius. He pointed out the places where Tiberius Gracchus
was slain, and not far away, though so long afterwards, Rienzi, too.
"Then he explained that though most of the buildings now on the
Campodoglio were by Michelangelo, this had been a centre for public
offices even under the first emperors. The Tabularium, where all old
records were kept, is under the palace of the Senators. We had not time
for it, but Marion had been there before, and he says it is almost the
only building now left of the time of the Republic. Then we walked
through the Capitoline Museum and I recognized many statues,--the Dying
Gladiator and Hawthorne's Marble Faun and the busts of the Emperors.
Marion says nearly all have been identified from coins, and are truer
than the heads of philosophers and poets that we saw. Then there is the
famous mosaic picture of the doves that shows even the shadows, which
came from Hadrian's villa, like so many things in marble and porphyry I
have seen this week.
"There are many relics from the ancient graves, gold bracelets and
other ornaments, and old inscriptions. They are not always easy to read,
but here is one to amuse the boys that Marion translated for me. I can't
give the exact words, but it was the epitaph of a boy eleven and a half
years old who had worked himself to death in a competition to recite
Greek verses. After we had seen all we wished in the museums, Marion
took me through a narrow way, the Via Tarpeia, and past the German
Embassy and then through a garden, where we paid an old lady a fee, and
then, but of course you have guessed it, we were standing on the famous
Tarpeian Rock. We looked down from the rock into a rather poor and
commonplace street, and I tried to imagine what it was like in the old,
old times when this was the edge of Rome, and Tarpeia was killed there
for betraying the city to the invaders.
"Without Marion I never could have found the Rock, and I don't believe
Uncle Jim and Aunt Caroline would have taken the trouble to go there."