Poor little Numero Cinque Via del Gambero has seldom, I imagine, known
so violent a sensation as that it experienced when, on the day of the
Immaculate Conception, the Armenian Archbishop rolled up to the door
in his red coach. The master of the house had always seemed to like
us; now he appeared with profound respect suffusing, as it were, his
whole being, and announced, "Signore, it is Monsignore come to take
you to the Sistine Chapel in his carriage," and drew himself up in a
line, as much like a series of serving-men as possible, to let us
pass out. There was a private carriage for the ladies near that of
Monsignore, for he had already advertised us that the sex were not
permitted to ride in the red coach. As they appeared, however, he
renewed his expressions of desolation at being deprived of their
company, and assured them of his good-will with a multiplicity of
smiles and nods, intermixed with shrugs of recurrence to his poignant
regret. But! In fine, it was forbidden!
Monsignore was in full costume, with his best ecclesiastical clothes
on, and with his great gold chain about his neck. The dress was richer
than that of the western archbishops; and the long white beard of
Monsignore made him look much more like a Scriptural monsignore than
these. He lacked, perhaps, the fine spiritual grace of his brother,
the Archbishop at Venice, to whose letter of introduction we owed his
acquaintance and untiring civilities; but if a man cannot be plump and
spiritual, he can be plump and pleasant, as Monsignore was to the last
degree. He enlivened our ride with discourse about the Armenians at
Venice, equally beloved of us; and, arrived at the Sistine Chapel, he
marshaled the ladies before him, and won them early entrance through
the crowd of English people crushing one another at the door. Then
he laid hold upon the captain of the Swiss Guard, who was swift to
provide them with the best places; and in nowise did he seem one of
the uninfluential and insignificant priests that About describes the
archbishops at Rome to be. According to this lively author, a Swiss
guard was striking back the crowd on some occasion with the butt of
his halberd, and smote a cardinal on the breast. He instantly
dropped upon his knees, with "Pardon, Eminenza! I thought it was a
monsignore!" Even the chief of these handsome fellows had nothing but
respect and obedience for our Archbishop.
The gentlemen present were separated from the ladies, and in a very
narrow space outside of the chapel men of every nation were penned up
together. All talked--several priests as loudly as the rest. But the
rudest among them were certain Germans, who not only talked but stood
upon a seat to see better, and were ordered down by one of the Swiss
with a fierce "_Giù, signore, giù_!" Otherwise the guard kept good
order in the chapel, and were no doubt as useful and genuine as any
thing about the poor old Pope. What gorgeous fellows they were, and,
as soldiers, how absurd! The weapons they bore were as obsolete as the
excommunication. It was amusing to pass one of these play-soldiers on
guard at the door of the Vatican--tall, straight, beautiful, superb,
with his halberd on his shoulder--and then come to a real warrior
outside, a little, ugly, red-legged French sentinel, with his Minié on
his arm.
Except for the singing of the Pope's choir--which was angelically
sweet, and heavenly far above all praise--the religious ceremonies
affected me, like all others of that faith, as tedious and empty. Each
of the cardinals, as he entered the chapel, blew a sonorous nose; and
was received standing by his brother prelates--a grotesque company
of old-womanish old men in gaudy gowns. One of the last to come was
Antonelli, who has the very wickedest face in the world. He sat with
his eyes fastened upon his book, but obviously open at every pore
to all that went on about him. As he passed out he cast gleaming,
terrible, sidelong looks upon the people, full of hate and guile.
From where I stood I saw the Pope's face only in profile: it was
gentle and benign enough, but not great in expression, and the smile
on it almost degenerated into a simper. His Holiness had a cold; and
his _recitative_, though full, was not smooth. He was all priest
when, in the midst of the service, he hawked, held his handkerchief up
before his face, a little way off, and ruthlessly spat in it!