Wharton Anne Hollingsworth
Italian Days and Ways
VIII
VIA APPIA
Monday, March 28th.
Ludovico proposed that we should take the long-talked-of drive along the Via Appia this beautiful afternoon. Knowing Angela's objection to subterranean excursions, he discreetly said nothing about the Catacombs, although I realized well that they were uppermost in his mind, and felt that I might safely trust a bit of diplomacy to this clever little Italian.
As we are living in the north-eastern part of Rome and the Via Appia is in the southern part, leading toward the Pontine Marshes and ancient Brundusium, we had a long drive across the city. We drove through the Corso as far as the Piazza Colonna, with its towering column erected by the Senate and the people in honor of your hero Marcus Aurelius, and then by smaller streets and squares to the Porta Capena. Of this gate, which is associated with so many interesting events, only fragmentary ruins remain. Near it were once grouped temples of Mars and Hercules and the tomb of the young sister of the Horatii, who was betrothed to one of the Curiatii. Ludovico repeated the sad little story, which we had all read in our school-days, of the girl coming out to meet her brother Horatius at the Porta Capena. When she saw the cloak wrought by her own hands borne by Horatius, she wept, as any other girl would have done, knowing that her lover was dead; upon which the cruel Horatius stabbed her to the heart, crying, "So perish the Roman maiden who shall weep her country's enemy!"
To see the place where this sad scene was enacted and the site of the grave of the hapless maiden made it seem as real as if it had occurred last year instead of—how many hundred years ago? We are realizing, as never before, what an old world this is. Even now, out in the Forum, they are opening the graves of men and women who lived before Romulus, as if the Rome of Numa and the Cæsars was not old enough for all antiquarian uses!
The old Romans, like the ancient Egyptians, seem to have had no shrinking from keeping death well in view, as this Via Appia, which was the patrician cemetery of Rome, was also a military highway and a pleasure-drive, and from it still branches a road leading to the race-course. Indeed, there is nothing dismal about this "way of tombs," for the road is wide, paved with large blocks of stone, and flanked by vineyards. On the right are the Baths of Caracalla, on the left are the tombs of the Scipios, while the long bridge-like ruins of the old aqueduct rise here and there above the level of the Campagna, and beyond, framing all, are the mountains. Flowers are blooming along the sides of the road, among the tombs and over them. Angela and Ludovico gathered a large bunch of cyclamen and the purple lady's-slipper orchids. Wherever there is an unsightly stone or a bit of broken wall, Nature has generously covered it with a drapery of green vines or white banksia roses.
Here, out in the sunshine and among the flowers, are the tombs of the grand old heathen, while the good Christians sleep in the dismal subterranean Catacombs. Is not this another example of the way in which the ancient pagan city dominates the Rome of later times?
A little way beyond the fine tombs of the Scipios we passed through the Arch of Drusus, with its equestrian statue and trophies, on whose summit is still a bit of the aqueduct by which Caracalla carried water to his baths. A little beyond the Porta San Sebastiano we came to the small Church of Domine Quo Vadis. You may remember the story which led to its foundation. During a great persecution of the Christians, under Nero, some of St. Peter's converts and devoted friends besought him not to expose his life by remaining in Rome. Peter finally listened to their counsels and fled along the Appian Way; but about two miles from the gate he was met by a vision of the Saviour, journeying towards the city. Filled with amazement, Peter exclaimed, "Domine, quo vadis?" "Lord, whither goest Thou?" To this question his Master replied, sadly, "I go to Rome to be crucified a second time," and vanished. Peter, accepting this as a sign that he was to submit to the sufferings that menaced him, turned back to Rome and met his fate. Hence the little yellow church of Domine Quo Vadis, which was built to mark the sacred spot.
We left the carriage and entered the church, as Zelphine wished to see the sacred footprints upon the stone pavement; but Ludovico told her that those impressions were only copies, the originals being at the Church of St. Sebastian. We walked on and on along the Via Appia, glad to tread the same stones that had been pressed by the feet of St. Peter, St. Paul, and so many great ones of the earth.
We were so much absorbed in the associations of the road, and had such unbounded confidence in our young guide, that we did not even ask where we were going, although I suspected that Ludovico was about to enact his coup d'état for Angela's benefit. Through a gateway shaded by cypresses we followed him into a rose-garden, with a chapel to the left and a booth opposite, where were displayed a number of odd and discordant relics. Here Ludovico stopped to buy some tickets, and then we descended many steps into darkness made somewhat visible by the light of curious little spiral tapers, cerini, which we carried.
Light seemed to dawn upon Angela's mind when the taper was handed to her at the entrance; she turned and shook her finger at Ludovico, exclaiming, "The Catacombs!" I felt at first that it was not quite fair to have beguiled the child here, against her will, to this dismal home of the dead, which cannot fail to impress a sensitive nature. Afterwards, however, Angela was so much interested in the little chapels in which the early Christians worshipped, with the paintings on the walls and the symbols of the fish, the dove, and the anchor over many of the tombs, that she quite forgot her terror.
The guide explained that these Catacombs of St. Calixtus include several columbaria, there being forty separate catacombs extending under the city, covering, according to Michele de Rossi's calculations, an area of 615 acres. The city of the dead is far greater than the city of the living; but this is not to be wondered at, considering the population of Rome under the Cæsars and the large number of converts to Christianity.
We were surprised to find the air mild, not chill and damp as one would expect in underground passages. Although there are wires for electric lights in some of the corridors, the Catacombs are not lighted by electricity. It was introduced five years ago, but was found to be impracticable, as the wires were soon injured by rust; hence we were spared this incongruity. Despite the many tales we had read of travellers being lost in the Catacombs, we never once thought of the danger, although our guide told us more than once that it would be well for us to keep close together.
He took us into a chapel containing the tombs of some of the early martyred popes, as St. Fabian, St. Lucius, and St. Sextus. In some of these chapels, or cubicula, are beautiful inscriptions to Pope Damasus, whose labor of love it was to restore and preserve these tombs of the Christians. At the end of a long inscription over the door of one of the largest of these sepulchral chambers, which records that here lie heaped together a number of the holy ones, the good Pope has humbly added:
"Here I, Damasus, wished to have laid my limbs,
But feared to disturb the holy ashes of the saints."
We then entered a chamber with an air-shaft above, like most of the cubicula, where, on the walls, were a number of Byzantine paintings of St. Urban, St. Cecilia, and a head of Christ. The guide told us that this chamber contained the remains of St. Cecilia until they were removed to the Church of Santa Cecilia in Trastevere. Without a word of warning, Ludovico drew us across the room to a niche in the wall, where we saw, lying upon her side, the loveliest of girlish figures. The first impression, in the semi-obscurity, with all the light falling on the recumbent figure, was that of a veiled woman asleep.
"Santa Cecilia!" said Ludovico, in a hushed voice. Zelphine bent forward as if ready to fall on her knees, when the official guide broke the reverent silence by reciting in a sing-song tone, but in quite comprehensible English:
"This rich Roman lady was sentenced to death by the prefect of Rome because she would not sacrifice to idols. After trying to smother the lady in her own bath, but not succeeding, because the saints were watching over her, a lictor was sent to cut off her head; but the saints took the strength out of his arm and he only wounded her, after which she lived three days preaching to the people. Step nearer and you will see the wound on the lady's neck. It is partially covered by a gold necklace."
In the sixteenth century the tomb of St. Cecilia was opened, and her embalmed body was found, beautiful and perfect, as if asleep in her own bed rather than lying in a tomb. Pope Clement III. and all Rome went to the Catacombs to look upon the saint, and Stefano Maderno, the greatest sculptor of his time, was called upon to model the marble statue of the lovely sleeping saint. Maderno's original statue of St. Cecilia we had seen in the Church of St. Cecilia in Trastevere, and also the artist's inscription, in which he says that he has modelled her in the very same posture of body as that in which she was found lying incorrupt in her tomb. Beautiful as is the marble in the church, it failed to impress us as did this replica in the appropriate setting of the cubiculum.
Tears were in our eyes as we turned away, and I heard Angela say to Ludovico, in her softest tone, "It is the most real thing I have seen in Rome!"
"Ludovico has good reason to be pleased with the success of his strategy," whispered Zelphine, and then, wishing to carry away undisturbed this exquisite memory of St. Cecilia, we made our way out toward the open, where we found our carriage awaiting us.
We were all very subdued, for pleasure-seekers, and were silent as we drove on past the vast tomb of Cæcilia, the daughter of Metellus and the beloved wife of the younger Crassus. Above the inscription are Gallic trophies which belonged to the elder Crassus, who was Cæsar's legate in Gaul. The tomb itself, a great round tower seventy feet in diameter, seems more like a fortress than a tomb, and we were not surprised to learn that the monument of this noble Roman lady had been used as a fortress in the thirteenth century.
Beyond this tomb, whose mystery and charm have inspired many a poet, the natural beauties of the Appian Way begin, as the vineyard walls no longer interrupt the more extended view over the Latin plain, with its ruined castles, villages, and aqueducts. When we had driven past the fifth mile-stone, near which are the tombs of the Horatii and the vast ruins of the Villa of Commodus, we were warned by a delicate, violet mist which was rising over the Campagna that it was time to turn towards Rome. Good Romans tell us that their city is perfectly healthful now, since the marshes have been drained, and so it seems to be; but it is always a question whether it is wise to linger near the Campagna about sunset, as we usually notice a chill dampness in the air at this time.
Thursday, March 31st.
Mrs. M., my old friend Rosalie L., has come from Sorrento to spend Holy Week and Easter with us. Dr. M. has a professional engagement which will detain him for a week or ten days, and in the interim we four are visiting churches most assiduously. There are interesting Tenebræ services in nearly all the churches this week. This rainy afternoon we went to Santa Maria Maggiore, which is one of the most beautiful and harmonious buildings we have seen. The mosaics are very rich, and the Borghese Chapel is gorgeous with precious marbles and alabaster. Here above an altar of jasper and lapis lazuli is the famous picture of the Virgin said to have been painted by St. Luke. It is much revered, not only on account of its origin, but because of its having, according to tradition, stopped the plague in Rome and brought about the overthrow of the Moorish dominion in Spain.
At St. Peter's, where we went later in the afternoon to hear the fine music, a lock of the Virgin's hair was exhibited, a piece of the true cross, and St. Veronica's handkerchief. I trust you will never cross-examine me upon the color of the Virgin's hair, and to forestall any such inquiries, I here frankly confess that I did not really see it, as the sacred relics were displayed from a high balcony over the great statue of St. Veronica. The handkerchief we did see, and the face of the Saviour on it, which was distinct. The basilica, near the high altar, was crowded; poor people and soldiers were kneeling beside richly dressed Roman ladies; many of the forestieri, like ourselves, were standing about, gazing at the strange sights, and some of them, I regret to say, were talking.
Rosalie, Zelphine, and I were interested, as indeed we always are, in watching the poor people, who are so attentive and devout, so much in earnest, coming to their churches as to a home. Groups of little children came in holding each other's hands, some of them bringing with them little toddling things of two and three. The face of one little girl I shall never forget, she was so exquisitely beautiful, with the loveliness of childhood and yet with a womanly seriousness in her dark eyes. Rosalie and I imagined Dante's Beatrice looking something like this little girl, and could understand his cherishing in his heart the image of that woman-child all his days.
Easter Sunday, April 3d.
We are glad to have a bright Easter Day, and enjoy it the more because Holy Week has been dark and rainy. We went to the English Church on the Via del Babuino in the morning, and in the afternoon to St. Peter's, to witness a procession of the priests which was somewhat disappointing. We then turned into the Pincio, which was a blaze of color with Judas-trees, wistaria, roses, and anemones. All Rome was in evidence. This is one of the few days in the year when the King and Queen drive out together in state. Angela and I were too late to see them, but Zelphine was more fortunate, as she passed them when she was driving with her cousins. She thought the Queen exceedingly pretty, youthful, and charming.
The well-to-do people were en voiture drawn up in line, the poor on foot crowding the walks and benches near the music-stand, where the band was playing merrily; a good-natured, cheerful crowd, and gayer, it seemed to me, than the same class of people in Paris. Nothing on the Pincio is more picturesque than the nurses in their full skirts of gay colors, with their luxuriant black hair decorated with bright ribbons and gold combs and pins. They look very stylish carrying the aristocratic bambini on pillows. We are told that these unfortunate babies are still swaddled like those in Della Robbia's terra-cottas.
In the meadows adjoining the Borghese Gardens the students of the different colleges were playing ball. Do you wonder that Italian immigrants find our Sundays insupportably dull? Here it is a fête-day all the year, and to-day being the feast of feasts, the people have come out to enjoy themselves in the sunshine. What would your father think of it all, Allan, and your Scotch grandmother? I could feel the shadow of her displeasure darkening the sunshine as I stood in the midst of this joyous crowd, and yet, after all, it seems an innocent way of spending a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
IX
TU ES PETRUS
Via Sistina, April 7th.
A grand and elaborate Gregorian ceremonial is to be held in St. Peter's on Monday, the eleventh, and, as you may imagine, tout le monde, the small world as well as the great, is rushing after tickets. We were able to secure the white entrance cards from our banker on the Piazza di Spagna, with which we were quite satisfied until Miss Dean, the charming Irish lady who sits next to me at the table d'hôte, showed me a yellow biglietto, which assures her a seat in the tribunes. Since then we have been filled with envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. We did not at all understand the difference between the white ingresso cards and the yellow until she explained it, with a delicious rolling of the r in ingresso such as even Angela, with all her aptitude for mimicking, is unable to attain. The white tickets simply give one an entrée to the church, the yellow, which come only to the favored few, are for seats in the tribunes. Recalling Madame Waddington's description of her own sufferings and those of the other diplomatic ladies at the coronation of the Czar Alexander III., we earnestly hope that we may be so fortunate as to have seats in one of the tribunes.
Ludovico, who has been rushing hither and thither for several days, trying to secure tickets for us through his godfather, who is one of the Pope's chamberlains, came in this evening, his face flushed with the joy of victory. I knew that he had secured the coveted biglietti, as soon as I saw him. There was, however, a shade of embarrassment in his manner which I could not quite understand. The reason became evident when Ludovico pulled two tickets, instead of three, out of his pocket, explaining with much hesitation that it was impossible to get more than two even from his official godfather, so great was the demand. We all three made haste to say, with proper politeness, that it was a great deal to have two tickets for such an occasion and to ask where was his own; to which he replied that there were no places in the tribunes for men. Did we not see that printed on the biglietti? He would go, of course, and stand about, or secure a perch on one of the great columns.
Although we were perfectly civil in our expressions to Ludovico, and, I trust, sufficiently grateful for a favor to which we could lay no possible claim, we were wondering how we could make two tickets answer for three women, all equally anxious to see the great ceremonies. Unlike the dame who was expected to fry her ten fish in nine separate pans at the same moment, we were unwilling "to give it up," and so continued to discuss the problem after we went to our rooms that night. Zelphine and I said most decidedly that Angela should go, at which she opened her eyes wide and asked why, adding, "I was always told that the older children should go everywhere and the younger ones stay at home, on the same principle as the helping at table. Being one of the older children, this has always seemed to me a perfectly fair arrangement, and I have never doubted the propriety of having my younger brothers eat the drumsticks."
"In the first place," said Zelphine, in her most judicial manner, "as you are so much younger, you will probably live longer to tell the tale."
"I don't think that is much of an argument," replied Angela stoutly. "The young occasionally die, and you are neither of you very aged, and you are both much giddier and more frivolous than I. Indeed, I sometimes wonder–"
You will never know the cause of Angela's wonder, because I interrupted her:
"After all, don't you think we had better consider Ludovico in this matter? Is it likely that he would travel all over Rome for days to get tickets for two old-er women?" I started to say "old," but I saw Zelphine wince, and so compromised on "older." "It is quite natural that a youth like Ludovico should wish to please the young lady of the party, and I must confess that although he handed the tickets to me, he looked at Angela for a smile of thanks, which she never vouchsafed him."
"It wasn't so very much to do," said Angela, laughingly, but with a tone of yielding in her voice. "He had only to go to his godfather and ask him for some tickets."
"Ungrateful child," I exclaimed, "is there any service that you would consider too great to be performed at your behest? I firmly believe that if Ludovico should bring you a wagon-load of roses from Queen Margherita's own garden you would simply raise your eyebrows and say, 'How charming! I never had quite so many roses; I hope you have been at no inconvenience in gathering them.'"
"What a picture!" exclaimed Angela, "and what an imagination you have, Margaret! And what darlings you both are!" With which the spoiled child kissed us both, and dismissed us to our slumbers.
"That is what comes of being a beauty," said Zelphine, "but with Angela's charm and cleverness nothing is really too good for her."
"Zelphine, you are quite as bad as the Italians over Angela's blonde head. I only trust that we may get her home without any love-affairs or duels; but she must go on Monday, coûte que coûte!"
April 10th.
Something has just happened that has forcibly impressed me with the wisdom of your favorite proverb about crossing bridges before one comes to them—a most delightful happening this! Dr. M. came in this evening to say that Rosalie had two tickets for the tribunes, and would I go with her? Of course I accepted with great alacrity, and we are all to set forth together to-morrow. Dr. M. and Ludovico will accompany us to the entrance to the church, when they and the other male barbarians will find such places as they may. I really feel sorry for Dr. M., who may never be here again upon such an occasion; but then he would probably not be willing to change places with any one of us, even with Angela, and I—well, I have never been quite so glad to be a woman as I am now. We do have some privileges, although Miss Susan B. Anthony would say that all of them, when weighed in the balance against the right of suffrage, are lighter than vanity.
Miss Dean informed me at dinner last night that the Earl and Countess of Denbigh, with their two young sons, have come to assist at the service to-morrow. From the expression of awe in her enchanting voice, I am sure that my charming neighbor feels that the pension and everything in it is honored by the presence of this peer and peeress of ancient lineage; but as these noble folk lunch and dine in their own parlor, we have only the uplifting consciousness that they pass through the same hall and go up and down in the same ascenseur (when it runs at all) upon their goings out and comings in. This, however, seems to fill to the brim the cup of content of my Irish friend.
April 11th.
We were all up betimes this morning, and were on our way to St. Peter's before eight o'clock. I must here confess to a quite pardonable pride in the appearance of my companions. Zelphine and Mrs. M., in long black gowns which accentuated their tall slenderness, with handsome lace at the neck and sleeves and the regulation black lace scarf most coquettishly draped over their white pompadours, looked like fair and noble ladies of the court of Louis Quinze on their way to mass at the Sainte Chapelle or Notre Dame. Angela, who owned no black gown, had borrowed one of mine, which she had tucked in and let out and generally readjusted until it became her as everything does that she puts on her graceful figure. The sombreness of her dress and veil served to bring out the gold of the girl's hair and the whiteness of her skin, and with a delicate flush on her cheek, like the inside of a shell, she looked like one of the beings whose name she bears.
Ludovico evidently had the same thought. Touched by the girl's beauty, after the manner of his beauty-loving race, he bent over Angela and repeated the old story of the three prisoners from Britain whose fair faces and blonde heads drew from Pope Gregory the exclamation, "Non Angli sed angeli!" "And this," added Ludovico, devoutly, "as you know, led to the Christianizing of Britain."
By the time Ludovico had finished his story we had reached the Borgo Nuovo. At the Piazza Rusticucci there was so long a line of carriages that we abandoned ours, and passed on foot through Bernini's lofty colonnade, and on by wicked Caligula's grand obelisk out into the vastness of the piazza, spanned to-day by the most perfect of Italian skies, into whose ethereal blueness Maderno's noble fountains were trying which one could throw its spray the highest.
It is a privilege to see St. Peter's at any time, but to see it to-day, with the great piazza filled with soldiers and the vast, surging, swaying throng of people, is an inspiration as well as a joy. The varied uniforms of the soldiers and guards and the gowns of the different seminarists, blue, green, purple, and, above all, the brilliant scarlet gowns of the German students, against the gray background of the great basilica, added much to the picturesqueness of the scene.
At the top of the great steps leading to the vestibule Ludovico begged us to turn for a moment to see the crowd below, a restless sea of heads, an immense concourse of people, but a good-natured crowd to which any one might trust himself with safety. Many tourists, English, French, and German as well as American, went to St. Peter's to-day provided only with the white biglietti of admission, and suffered no inconvenience. I really hesitate to tell you just how many souls are said to have been in the basilica this morning, lest the apparent extravagance of my statement should lead to incredulity in the future; but it is said that there were over 50,000 souls inside the walls.
Dr. M. and Ludovico left us at the south door, and once inside the building we had no difficulty in making our way to the sacristy, and through the gray marble portal, by Romano's statues of St. Peter and St. Paul, and so on to the tribunes in the transept.
Rich silk hangings draped the stone walls and columns, those behind the papal throne being embroidered in ecclesiastical designs. The throne was placed in front of the ancient Chair of St. Peter, and between our seats and the throne was the great high altar, ninety-five feet in height, with its bronze canopy and graceful spiral columns of Bernini, double spirals richly gilded. As the mass was to be celebrated at the high altar and as we were in the fourth row of seats from the front, we were sure of a good view of the Pope. All around us were the Swiss Guards, in the picturesque costume of red, yellow, and black designed by Michael Angelo, and the Pope's Guardia Nobile, with "winged Achillean helmet above the Empire uniform—half Greek, half French, half gods, half dandies," as Mrs. Ward described this guard of young nobles which surrounds the Pope. The uniform of the Gendarme Pontificio is somewhat like that of the old Philadelphia City Troop, a handsome uniform of black and white with an immense shako adorned with a red plume. But most gorgeous of all were the chamberlains, in a costume of black velvet of the period of Philip II., a Spanish dress with a velvet cape thrown over one shoulder, superb lace cuffs and collar and an immense ruff around the neck, and gold cords and chains without end. Zelphine and I fancied our friend Dr. R., who was chamberlain to Pope Leo XIII., figuring in this rich, decorative costume. One of the chamberlains wore a costume of ruby-colored velvet with a sable hood over his shoulders.
It was so interesting to sit still and watch the changing scene before us that the two hours of waiting passed quickly. The Pope's little sisters sat in front of us in the seats nearest to the high altar, but although quite close to us we could not see their faces. They, of course, wore the costume de rigueur for such functions, black gowns, and black lace veils on their heads. During the long wait, an American girl sitting near us told us of her experiences. Not understanding about the costume required, "very stupidly," as she said and as we thought, she appeared in a dark blue suit with a hat to match. The guard refused to admit her, explaining the reason with signs and gestures, pointing at the same time to the veiled ladies passing through the doorway. Then, in a flash, presto change!—our quick-witted countrywoman had taken off her hat and tucked it in the folds of her skirt, having previously denuded it of a black dotted veil which she threw over her head. The guard, lost in wonder at the sudden transformation, was so bedazzled that he did not notice that her gown was blue instead of black, or perhaps he was so sure that she would get in by hook or by crook, that he allowed her to pass, exclaiming, "Ah, these Americans!"
"Something is going to happen," said Angela; "the Swiss Guards are coming." A detachment marched along the central aisle, with cuirass and iron helmet added to their brilliant plumage of every-day wear, and lined up by the papal throne. There was a rustle and stir of expectancy over the vast assemblage, then breathless stillness like the silence of nature before a storm. All eyes strained towards the eastern door, through which entered the gorgeous procession. The Palatine Guard lined the way down the central aisle, some of the Swiss Guard being stationed at different points. First came the Guardia Nobile, then the mitred abbots, the bishops and archbishops in copes and mitres of white and gold, the patriarchs and cardinals, these latter with long capes of cloth of gold worn over their scarlet robes. Then came the canons and monsignori in lace and fur tippets, after them the prince in attendance on the papal throne, Don Filippo Orsini, followed by the secret chamberlains bearing the precious tiaras and mitres covered with gold and jewels. The triple crown, which was borne upon a cushion, was a blaze of the most brilliant jewels, diamonds, emeralds, and rubies, too heavy in its richness to be borne long by any mortal head.
Finally, announced by a blast from the silver trumpets, the Pope appeared, seated in the sedia gestatoria, borne above the heads of the multitude by members of the household in a livery of scarlet cloth, the huge feather fans or flabella being carried on each side. I really did not grasp all these details at first, as the interest all centred in that one august figure. The Pope was pale, and at first appeared to be somewhat agitated. It is said that he very much dislikes to be carried into the church, and it must, indeed, be a trying position. The chair is lifted high above the heads of the people, that every one may see the Holy Father; it is borne along slowly, pausing altogether at intervals. There was a stop near our seats of a minute or more, which gave us an opportunity to see the noble, benevolent face of the one man who stands for so much to millions of the faithful. Less handsome and distinguished in appearance than some of his pictures, Pius X. has that in his face that is worth infinitely more than manly beauty or aristocratic bearing; one cannot look into it without being impressed by his earnestness and sincerity.
