TWELFTH STATION.
New Year's Thoughts—Romantic Preludes—Festal Life in Rome—Beggars—“Museo Christiano”—Evening in the Palazzo Farnese—Festival of the Propaganda—Cold and Catarrh—View from the Capitol—Carnival—La Grippe—Preparations for Lent—Pontifical Jubilee, and Pontifical Bill of Fare—Soirée at the Grants'—Cardinal Antonelli.
January, 1858.—A Happy New Year! to Italy, Sweden, to the whole world, and to you, my R——. Our hemisphere turns again towards the sun, and absorbs his rays with renewed force. They shine into my soul, into my mind, which this morning felt fresh and bright, able to perceive that which the new year ever preaches, and that which Home preaches to me like the New Year. For it preaches a sermon, this ancient city, a doctrine in symbolic signs and monuments, which become ever clearer to me daily, and which strike me with new clearness in the light of the new year. And this sermon is “Risorgimento! Vita Nuova!” The Phœnix, the wonderful bird, shakes his wings in the ascending sun above the ancient city, and indicates its life, an ascending metamorphosis. There stand the Egyptian obelisks, evidences of the most ancient art, and the most ancient worship. They stand rigid, pointing upwards, testifying by their hieroglyphic inscriptions, that mankind worship God in their earthly rulers and in nature. But above the oriental columns now stand a star and a cross. These proclaim that a crucified, buried, and arisen son of man has delivered mankind from the hand of despots, and from the wild chaos of Pantheism, and raised them nearer to Heaven.
Here stand the splendid columns of Trajan and Antoninus, covered with bas-reliefs in commemoration of the victories of the Roman people over foreign nations, who were led captive in the triumphal processions of the conquerors. Formerly the statues of these conquerors crowned the columns, but now, instead, stand the figures of Peter and Paul, Apostles of the doctrine of peace. They have conquered the Apostles of war, and the people are no more dragged along in rude triumphal procession.
Here rise, in solemn mournful beauty, the broken columns of the Forum, ruins of the place, where, for the first time, the rights of the people found unflinching supporters and protectors through the force of language and public opinion. Long may those columns remain, in their ruinous beauty! This forum is needed no longer. It shows the way. But the all-subjecting power of the new time is supported by spiritual columns which can neither be broken nor yet fall. Christianity and the free press have made this impossible. And upon the concentrated forum of humanity—thank Heaven!—even the captive speaks, even silent sighs are heard!
Modern Rome has been built upon the site of ancient Rome and in great measure out of its ruins. Upon the spot where stood the golden house of Nero, the palaces of Claudius, and Caracalla, the temples of the heathen divinities, now rise Christian churches and temples, where art ministers to the highest ideas. The symbol of the cross is reared upon the Capitol, as well as on the spires of the temple of Minerva. Catholic Rome arose out of the pile of the heathen, imperial Rome, and became a ruler even as she had been. And that on the plea of eternal right. The Catholic Church was then the Christian Church, great in power and in wisdom; she possessed the keys of the kingdom of heaven: Christ's revelation and its doctrines. Thus she became, during the minority and the half-savage condition of the world, the educator who led the people to the Saviour, to order, and to unity. She became the great seminary where they should learn to become a sacerdotal people, a people to the honor of God. She became the mother, who fosteringly clasped all people to her bosom. She had a right to do so, because the treasures of the highest life were in her possession; she must do it, even with authority and severity, because the age was half-savage, and the people and the princes violent and given to war. But, during the struggle to overcome and reduce the world to order, she availed herself of worldly weapons and, becoming herself worldly, forgot her ideal and the significance of the word,—the church. Christ never spoke of the church, but as the kingdom of God on the earth, and made it clear, both by word and deed, what that kingdom is.
The representatives of Christ on earth, popes and bishops, forgot by degrees that the kingdom of God was something different to the structure of ecclesiastical forms, which was merely raised with the intention of preparing or sheltering it. And, as the emperors, seated on the world's throne, became dizzy from their elevation, and fancied themselves to be gods, so, by degrees, the popes, grown dizzy under their cowls, believed themselves to be our Lord's true and only instruments, directly inspired by the Holy Ghost. They even set themselves in God's place on earth, and the Catholic Church, from having been a nursing and wise, though sometimes a severe mother, became a wicked step-mother, who persecuted, banished, and burned without mercy, the children who would not in all things, conform to her bidding, or who ventured to think that she had forgotten the divine, eternal command, in following alone her own worldly interests and caprices.
A portion, however, of the children, who had attained to years of discretion through the teachings of Christ, could neither be destroyed by one means or another. They became more and more numerous (they were called either from the places whence they came, or from the names of their leaders, Waldenses, Albigenses, Hussites, Wickliffites, and so on), until under the guidance of Luther and Calvin, they became mighty in strength and maturity of mind; and, on the grounds of conscience and the word of God, threw off the Papal yoke, and declared themselves free to obey God alone in the light of his gospel. This became the palladium of the Protestant peoples.
When the Church of Rome saw nation after nation separate themselves from her, she sought to reconquer them by all possible means, even by that of self-reformation, by the discontinuance of various abuses, and by degrees, even the stake, the torture—at least in its grossest form—if not from conviction, yet from fear; and some of its noblest members gained souls by the love, the admiration which they inspired. All this, however, was but to little purpose. The two Christian churches continued to be divided, each one claiming to possess the essential of Christianity. And both have it,—and both have it incompletely. But the Catholic requires blind obedience to his authority, and allows no free inquiry, no independent use of the light of reason. And in this respect she is the church of those who are in pupilage, of those who have not faith in the Divine light, in human reason, and the conscience, and in the human ability to understand the revealed word of God by this light. Will she long continue what she now is—the greater portion of the Christian Church? May she be so, until the Protestant Church shall have advanced to a higher consciousness, to a more spiritual life, till she have regained and interpreted in a higher light many of the ever-preserved treasures of the Catholic Church. Then perhaps will this church acknowledge that which the younger sister has won, and understand what it is which she desires; and then both may go on to their transformation, ascend to a new life, a church, a kingdom in spirit and in truth, such as our Lord and Master desires it to be!
I have faith in the eternal power of life, have faith in the ascending metamorphosis, of which the Roman monuments preach. And as certain flowers, beloved by the sun, develop a metamorphosis, more than the others, so ought this soil, warm with the life of beauty and the blood of martyrs, become a sun-flower, which shall represent the transfiguration of the Christian church into a holy and glorious kingdom of God. May it be so! But, as yet, the time is far distant!
The New Year has entered our quiet, little northern
home, on the noisy Corso, with an occurrence which
has made a new year in the life of my young friend,
and has gladdened me with the sight of the power of
pure love and gratitude in the female heart.
For my young Swiss sister also, as I learn from a letter just received, has the New Year brought with it a new chapter. The contents of which are Love and Marriage!
January 12th.—If the weather be beautiful, as it has been almost uninterruptedly, since we came here, then life in Rome is to the stranger, like an incessant festival. Every day brings with it something new to see, something new to think about, interesting for beauty, or spectacle, or curiosity. The palaces and collections of works of art are always open to visitors, the promenades are always splendid with gay equipages and toilettes, the fountains are always playing, and the roses always blooming brightly beneath the dark-blue sky. One can rejoice daily in the power and life of the sun, and in the ever-varied scenes and the grand views which it lights up.
The beggars in Rome do not constitute any dark shadow in these pictures. One sees and knows that they practice a trade, which they are accustomed to, and from which very few of them could be weaned. Every beggar has his own peculiar style, and he is certain that it will produce him something. In the evening he counts over his little earnings—probably three or four paoli—less than two shillings—I have been told, and passes a cheerful evening; able also to lay by a little for the future. Begging is a species of finding, and it has all the interest of that occupation. Custom has removed any humiliation which might otherwise attend it. Some beggars—as the well-known Beppo, on the Piazza di Spagna—are wealthy, but they cannot leave off begging. They are so accustomed to it; life, to them without it would be wearisome, and the sun in Rome, takes care that they do not suffer much from their exposure on the streets and squares.
Some years ago the police endeavored to introduce a reform. The beggars were provided with shelter and food, but, at the same time kept within bounds. But they would not endure the confinement. One old woman threw herself out of the window and was killed by the fall. After this no attempt was made to circumscribe the freedom of the beggars. And they are not pertinacious, and do not persecute you as at Pisa. Each one has his own post and seat, and he calls upon the passers by. (For the peace of my own conscience, I give a bajocco daily.) At noon the gates of the Capuchin convents are opened, and bread and soup are dealt out—which they, on their part, have begged—to the hungry, who gather round their steps. The soup may be meagre enough, but still it is something. The poor human sparrows are accustomed to be satisfied with the crumbs of life. The sun, the air, freedom, that delicious far niente, give them enough to make them enjoy life. A miserable life, it is true, but————
I will now speak of the strangers in Rome.
Whilst these, during the day, throng the museums, visit churches and promenades, social life opens for them, in the evening, its saloons, and people talk there pleasantly over their tea, confectionary, and ices; or the theatres also invite them by music—sometimes very good—or by tragedies of Alfieri, or comedies by Goldoni. Even Jenny and I, have our rich share in this festal life. In the evening, however, I prefer remaining at home, sitting by the fire in our drawing-room, listening to Jenny, as she reads to me by lamp light, and letting, the while, my eyes wander from the quietly flickering flames of the fire to her gentle Madonna-like countenance, more beautiful still when seen by this light. But we do not always enjoy quietness like this. We are frequently visited by Scandinavian friends, sometimes by foreigners, amongst whom was this day, a young Duke di Torlonia, a very agreeable young man, and one of the few amongst the young nobility of Rome, who are cultivated by literature. Twice in the week comes my professor of Italian literature, Signor Barguillione, a mild, little, amiable, and learned man, and perfect genius in languages. He reads Dante with me, to a perpetual accompaniment of e molto philosophico! molto grazioso, bello, bellissimo! Ho capito? Ho capito? As we are still in the Hell, and Dante's fancy is especially rich in horrible punishments and torments, I am not able to accord with his e molto grazioso, molto bellissimo, but perhaps it will be otherwise when we arrive in purgatory. I have also begun to read with him the old Roman language, the metallic clang and beautiful rhythm of which, always delighted me. I believe, with the wise Solon, that one is never too old to learn, but I begin to suspect that one may be too old to learn a new language.
Kind friends have provided us with many excellent works on Italy, its art and artists, and it has been a pleasure to me thus to make the acquaintance of Vittoria Colonna, alike noble as a woman and a poetess, with Michel Angelo and Eaphael, in the letters written by them, and many other artists, which have lately been published by Gühl. Michael Angelo gains on this acquaintance, and Raphael loses. In the letters of the former, you see profound thought and religious earnestness, a something honest, strong and benevolent, kind and simple. He is something more than merely an artist. Raphael, in his letters, speaks about nothing but money, and when the subject is his own marriage, he mentions that the “lovely child” has such and such a number of scudi. One sees no trace of the great Maestro, and no trace either of noble humanity. Nevertheless, Vasari says of him, that wherever he came, he brought with him a spirit of peace and harmony, which diffused a sense of satisfaction to every one and every thing. It is singular, that Raphael at his death, desired to be buried by the side of the young girl, to whom he had been betrothed, and who died before him, but whom he did not love like La Fornarina and others. The love of Michael Angelo for Yittoria Colonna is of the highest class. From his short, but not unfrequently interesting letters, I was struck by the often recurring closing sentence, “nothing further occurs to me at this time,” or “I have nothing more to say.” A remarkably candid and sensible expression!
I will now say a few words, regarding what I have seen and learned during the last ten or twelve days.
In the first place, I will tell you about the festival in the church of Ara Cœli, on the 6th inst. Il Beatissimo Bambino was now to be carried out from the manger to bless the Roman people, and then to be put by again till next Christmas. The lofty steps of Ara Cœli looked like an ant hillock, so thronged were they with people. Men and boys who sold little books (legends and prayers), rosaries, pictures of saints, medallions, chestnuts, oranges, and other things, shouted and made a great noise. Little boys and girls were still preaching zealously in the church, and people of all classes were crowding thither. Processions advanced with the thundering cheerful music of the fire-corps. Il Bambino, a painted image of wood, covered with jewels and with a yellow crown on its head, was carried by a monk in white gloves and exhibited to the people from a kind of altar-like erection at the top of Ara Cœli steps. Every body dropped down upon their knees; Il Bambino was shown on all sides, the music thundered, and the smoking censers were swung.
In about an hour, Il Bambino was carried back into the church, and the throng of people dispersed. It was pleasant to see how quietly and amiably they conducted themselves, although the greater number consisted of ill-dressed men and boys. Devotion, properly so called, I did not observe in these countenances, but neither did I see any thing resembling laughter or derision. The people believed, evidently in Il Bambino, or had a sense of its symbolic significance, as an image of the child who came to give the people the treasures of the kingdom of Heaven.
On the 8th of January, I visited Villa Ludovici, in company with several Scandinavians. Amongst its antique statues, is a colossal head of Jesus, and a figure of Minerva of great beauty, but like all the antique divinities, cold, without any expression of human love and sympathy. It was pleasant to wander in the laurel and pine groves of the extensive grounds, to see the cattle grazing in the green meadows, where the lemon trees shone out with their fine fruit, and the narcissus was about to burst into bloom. The air was like that of a beautiful May-day in Sweden.
On the 9th, Madame de Martino drove me to the Museum of the old church San Giovanni di Lateran, where Cavaliere De Rossi, is now forming a separate Museo Christiana, of the valuable relics, together with the inscriptions which he discovered in the Catacombs. De Rossi met us in the gallery, in order to be our guide. He arranges here burial inscriptions and pictures, according to the various periods, when they were executed, and the place where they were found, so that this museum will supply an historical and geographical picture of the catacomb world.
The first pictures which are presented to our observation, are of the good shepherd who carries the lost sheep upon his shoulders. Then come pictures from the Old and New Testaments. The miracles of Christ with the bread, restoring sight to the blind, and raising of Lazarus, are often seen. It is not until the third century, that we see the crown of thorns, and pictures of the suffering Saviour. So much did the painters of Rome, fear to become “an offense to the Romans, and to the Greeks foolishness.”
It was interesting to observe the manner in which the industrious and patient antiquarian labors, at putting together the various burial inscriptions, which he has found scattered about and broken into small fragments.
Of my evenings past in society, I could particularly recall one spent at the Neapolitan minister's, in the Palazza Farnese, during which I was so agreeably entertained by a Ligurian count, that the evening hours appeared to me to be minutes. I have forgotten his name, but his conversation, full of striking and fine observations, brilliant and fluent like a continuous improvisation, I can never forget, and in order the better to retain it, I will note down a few expressions regarding Italy and the Italians.
“The Italian nation, composed of widely different
original races, has, nevertheless, through the superior
influence of climate and scenery, acquired a certain
unity, a certain character. The sun has, as it were,
amalgamated them into one nation; but it will still
require a long time for it to become mature. The
Neapolitans represent at once the natural life in its fullness
and the life of thought in its intensity. The former
is represented by the people in their everyday life and
songs—one often meets with improvisatori of both
sexes—the culmination of the sun-life. The wealthy
and high-born, on the contrary, love to occupy
themselves with learned studies, especially the philosophical.
The greatest philosopher of Italy, Vico, and in
recent times Galluppi, were Neapolitans. At the
present day the Neapolitan youths of the higher class cultivate
their studies for their pleasure and pastime, never
thinking at all of enlightening the world by that
means. The bias of the Germans toward the
Weltverbeserung is unknown to them. They love to rest
and to enjoy, and Germany's great Hegel even
strengthens this passion. ‘Questo Hegel, quanto e said a young Neapolitan count of the great
thinker, who is, however, so perilous to many.
“This love of philosophical studies appears to have been inherited by the Neapolitans from the Greeks, who emigrated in great numbers from their country to establish themselves in Southern Italy, then Magna Grecia. There is more literary activity in Naples than in Rome, especially as regards translations from the French and German. But a meritorious scientific journal, Vico, which is published there is about to be discontinued from want of support.
“Mind, in Naples is, as it were, within a diving bell, it cannot breathe freely, and it has therefore no free worshipers. Where there is no freedom is stagnation and death. Mind dives in vain into the depths, it cannot bring up thence any true pearls to the day. A late evidence of this is Padre Tosti, a warm-hearted, liberal-minded monk of Monte Casino, whose noble patriotic history of La lega Lombarda, dedicated to Pio Nono, obtained for him, from the King of Naples, several months' imprisonment, and even afterwards when, at the request of the pope, he was released, unceasing surveillance.”
According to Count —— the Serbes were the only
branch of the Sclaves inhabiting the provinces of the
Danube, who are possessed of a national, independent
life, as well as power to combat for its maintenance.
The rest, under the dominion of Austria or Turkey,
satisfy themselves with a slavish imitation of the
manners and fashions of the European nations, especially
of the French. Such arc the most wealthy of these people; the poor, or laboring classes, are ignorant and
rude—not much above mere animals.
I obtained from M. de Martino, Padre Tosti's work, La Lega Lombarda, “the best book ever written!” added the Neapolitan minister, whom I find to be an intellectual, liberal-minded man, astonishingly frank in his mode of expression. His appearance is kind, clever, and refined, and shows also decided character.
The Neapolitan quality sat at the card-table, gentlemen, for the most part, with beautiful heads and glossy black hair. A young princess, beautiful as a statue, with a red camelia in her dark-brown hair, sat there the whole evening. For the rest, these handsome princes, with their handsome names, are not treated with much more ceremony than less noble people.
“Prince d'Isola Bella, be so good as to ring the bell!” said Madame de Martino, to a young, noble-looking gentleman, who hastily obeyed. My blonde young Swedish friend, with her fair complexion, and bright blue eyes, her quiet, agreeable demeanor, looked extremely well in that circle of dark-eyed, dark-haired Italians. De Rossi was also present, and devoted himself principally to her. Guests were still arriving at midnight.
Yesterday (January 11th), Jenny and I were present at the Lutheran service in the Prussian chapel, on Monte Caprino, near the Capitol. How pure, simple, and sincere, it appeared, in comparison with the worship of the Romish church, and how much more edifying! It was exactly like coming out of the oppressive atmosphere of frankincense, into the pure spring air, beneath the free open heaven!
For the establishment of this Lutheran church, we have to thank the late Prussian minister, now Baron von Bunsen, who obtained means from the King of Prussia for this purpose. In connection, also, with the church, and through the same endeavors, has a hospital been established, also on the Tarpeian rock, for Protestant Christians, together with a house where travelers of this faith can be accommodated.
In the afternoon, I went to the church of the Augustines, to see the kissing of the golden foot of the Madonna. This ceremony was being performed still more zealously than on the former occasion. How they came in troops and companies, well and ill dressed, men and women, old people and young children! How they pressed around the jewel-covered, lamp-lighted, marble figure!—a beautiful figure, with a mild, noble, maternal expression. How fervently they kissed her golden toes! One old soldier kissed them six times in succession, with great feeling. Afterwards, they took of the holy oil (in a lamp), and touched with it their forehead, throat, breast, and neck. It was, however, remarkable to witness, and that for hour after hour. The place was never empty; frequently there was an amazing crowd! Much money was heard to chink as it fell down into the box at the foot of the Madonna. A number of people were on their knees, praying before the altar. Two of these, an elderly man and woman, had both of them such an affecting expression of deep feeling in their countenances and manner, that I could not but pray for them and with them, although not, like them, to the Madonna.
“We have a ladder of supplicators from earth up to the highest heaven!” I have heard Catholics say. “And we need no such ladder,” the Protestant Christian may reply, “because we stand, through Christ, in immediate relationship to God!”
We shall to-day be present at the great annual festival of tongues of the Jesuits' Propaganda for La Fide Christiana.
January 14th.—This Collegio di Propaganda, founded by Gregory XV. for the purpose of educating Christian missionaries of all nations, who afterwards, each in his own tongue, shall proclaim the doctrine of Christ in his own native land, is a grand idea. But the festival of tongues, this year, did not give a high sense of the present stand-point of the institution. I naturally expected to hear the praise of Christ and his doctrine, expressed in many different languages. But the subject given out to all was La Colonna, which Pio Nino has had erected, in honor of the immaculate Virgin, on the Piazza di Spagna. All the pupils of the Propaganda were therefore to deliver an encomium on this column; and it was the glorification of La Colonna and the Virgin Mary, which again and again was repeated, in emphatic verse, and expressed in Hebrew, Armenian, Persian, Arabic, Coptic, Greek, Latin, and many other old languages, as well as many more modern ones—nay, I believe in every modern tongue except Swedish. A pale little boy represented the Danish.
The Hebrew, Persian, and Latin, sounded to my ears the most beautiful of all the ancient tongues, and of the newer-modern Italian, Spanish, German, and English, which two last were very well declaimed. The Sclave language was deficient in elevated sound; the Chinese in all melody, the syllables tumbled one against another, and clattered disagreeably. The language of the Ethiopians, as well as of the South Sea islands, sounded like the beginning of languages; the latter, in particular, were more like animal sounds than perfected words, and the islanders who used them resembled half-animal human beings. They gave us also two little songs, consisting of few notes, melancholy and weak, but not without grace. The children of Africa had more character and more peculiar beauty in appearance and expression.
The actors in this scene were from two to three hundred youths—part of them almost children, the others approaching manhood—who sat on benches in a half circle, on the end of a kind of theatre. He who had to speak stepped forward on the stage, and when he had concluded was usually saluted by the audience with a little salvo of clapping, sometimes with one of laughter. The first part closed with a scene which they called La confusion de la tour de Babel, in which all the actors began at once to say, or to sing mass, each one in his tongue, which produced a horrible charivari, and was received with general laughter and loud clapping of hands.
“Is this indeed a religious festival?” exclaimed, with indignation, a young Swedish lady who sat near me.
In the second part, King David himself, in the person of a dark-bearded gentleman—probably of Jewish descent, came forth and sang La Colonna to the accompaniment of his harp. Other prophets joined in the chorus. It was beautiful and—ridiculous.
The queen-dowager of Spain, Maria Christina, was present, accompanied by her youngest daughter, several cardinals, together with a Papal guard. She sat in the place of honor, very corpulent, but with a countenance still beautiful. Her young daughter is a beauty, and lately betrothed to a little ugly Italian prince.
The festival, taken as a whole, was very splendid, curious and interesting in its own way, but without earnestness or religious purpose.
“Roba per i forestieri!” say the serious Romans, speaking of such festivals, at which they are themselves seldom present. Roba, equivalent to the French word chose, and the Swedish sak, is used for every thing which is spoken of as a whole;—for instance, a Roman working man said to me, speaking of the Tiber e poco roba; your luggage, a festival, an occurrence, any thing, whatever it may be, is roba.
“Roba per i forestieri!” (a something for the foreigners) said disparagingly a Roman matron, of the festival of the holy week in St. Peters, at which she herself never was present.
The last day of January.—Intense cold for the last fourteen days. An icy tramontana prevails in the air: icicles hang from the fountains; the Roman people shiver and sneeze, and declare that it has not been so cold for twenty years, that it is unheard of, and so on. The weather is nevertheless bright, and at noon the sun lights a fire in his attic, which warms up, for a few hours, the air and the streets of the city. One there sees a number of poor people belonging to the city, as well as country—people from the mountains round Rome—men in pointed hats and with goat-skin breeches, women in white head-dresses, red bodices and strings of pearls—sitting and lying, with their handsome little children, on the broad steps from the Piazza di Spagna, up to the terrace of Trinita di Monte. There they sit and lie, hour after hour, warming themselves in the sun, and eating chestnuts, apples, and dreadfully sour oranges, waiting, I believe, for the artists who find amongst them their models. But even, everywhere in Rome, wherever the sun shines warm, and a wall offers a shelter against the tramontana, you see people crowding together as round a comfortable fire. At the street-corners people stand round large chafing-dishes, and women and girls, whether walking or standing, are always holding their hands over the little clay pitchers with handles, called Marito, which contain live coals. The whole population of Rome is now employed in warming itself, and little winged insects dance about in the sun with the same design.
Spite of the cold, however, there is, every afternoon, from three o'clock till dusk, an unceasing procession of carriages, in a double row, with handsome horses and handsome, splendidly attired ladies, and mustachioed gentlemen; and on the outside the procession stands, head close to head, a legion of gentlemen, who simply stare on the passing equipages, and this standing far niente is the noble Roman pastime. Between the magnificent equipages, with their splendid and plumed ladies, comes now and then an open hired carriage, in which are seated two or three women of the populace, and the same number of men to match, the women with bare heads, and they too drive in the procession, and wheel round on Monte Pincio, in company with the gay world, and nobody says any thing about it. It appears all to be in due course. In other European cities, and even in the Free States of America, I fancy that people would be somewhat astonished at this kind of equality.
The topics of conversation at the present moment are the last attempt made in Paris against the life of the French Emperor, by means of the infernal machine, and the terrible earthquakes which within the last month have converted several towns of Calabria into heaps of ruins, and caused the destruction of about eighteen thousand human beings! The only one large newspaper of Rome, the official journal, Giornale di Roma, gives the most circumstantial account of these events, as well as of the assistance—“the most efficacious,” as it assures its readers—which the King of Naples has rendered to these afflicted places and people.
For the rest every body is preparing for the Carnival. Provision-dealers are raising their prices. Confectioner's shops are filled with comfits of all sorts and colors, and on the Corso, Piazza Colonna, and Piazza del Popolo, galleries and boxes are being erected for spectators of the festivities of this gay week. For it is not much beyond a week that the grand spectacle of the Roman Carnival extends; and people are making ready to indulge the flesh in every way—of course such as are permissible! during this time, at the close of which they must take leave of the pleasures of the same—Carne-Vale!—in order that during the fast of a month they may consider what belongs to heaven.
People promise themselves this year an unusually gay Carnival, because the Pope has now, for the first time since 1848, the year of the Revolution, permitted the use of masks, at the express desire, it is said, of her Catholic Majesty the queen-dowager Maria Christina, who, being a gay lady, wishes to see the gayest scene of Rome in all its splendor. She herself gives this winter, in her hotel on the Piazza di Spagna, a grand reception every week, costume-balls and other festivities, to which all are invited who are presented to her, as well of Roman society as of foreigners of rank.
During one of the past days, which was less severe than the rest, we visited, in company with two Norwegian countrymen, the cradle of Rome, Monte Palatino, where La picciolissima Roma was founded by Romulus, and by degrees grew up to be the mistress of the world. The ruins of the palace of the Caesars lie now in shapeless, gigantic masses and heaps spread over a vast extent of this elevation, and it is now no longer possible to discover what was the form of the building, or the plan of its design. All they know is, that they are not arranged according to any regular plan; that many emperors, one after the other, and also various great or wealthy men, built for themselves palaces or villas upon this eminence, without troubling themselves about any conformity with what had gone before. Cicero and Augustus are said to have had here quite simple houses, and it is said also that a great number of insignificant dwellings were interspersed amongst the magnificent temples and palaces. In the mean time it is known that here it was, and also between the heights of the Capitol, the Esquinal and Aventine hills, that the highest splendor of imperial Rome, in its palaces and temples, was to be met with. It was here that formerly was found, and still is to be found—although as shadows of their ancient splendors—the Baths of Livia; here were the gardens of Adonis, laid out in the luxurious taste of the East. It was at the foot of the Palatine hill that Nero's golden house was situate, with its three thousand columns, and a world of plundered treasure. Of all these palaces nothing now remains but some walls and heaps of rubbish. Here and there only may be distinguished the form of a rotunda, a tower, an arched passage, a gate, or a room; and here and there also a piece of bas-relief. Bushes of laurel, rosemary, and a species of oak, garland these shapeless masses, and constitute the only beauty which now belongs to them.
A large cabbage-garden occupies the height of Monte Palatino, and cabbage grows excellently in the old classical soil. The cabbage garden seems to me, in this situation, properly symbolic; because the last of the great Roman Emperors, Diocletian, laid aside his crown to be at rest, and “plant cabbage.” Nevertheless, he was not able to eat his cabbage in peace, but was obliged to purchase his imperial elevation by a life of sorrow, which ended in suicide. The view of Rome, its extensive Campagna and surrounding mountains, is, from this point, of the grandest and most beautiful description; the wind blows fresh and free over this height. One cannot wonder that the great men of Rome loved to dwell and to build here; one rather wonders, indeed, that they left during the last centuries, and that they still leave the gloriously-situated Monte Palatino to its ruins and cabbage gardens.[1] The only part of the hill which is covered with houses and inhabited, is that which a wealthy Englishman converted into a beautiful garden, and which is called, after him, Villa Mills. It is now the residence of an order of nuns, who there enjoy the purest air and the most beautiful view; but they possess their paradise to themselves alone.
In the bath-room of Livia—to which you ascend by a flight of steps and an under-ground passage—there are still some well preserved portions of beautiful, painted pictures and arabesques, with the gilding still perfect, both on the walls and the roof. You see blue figures upon a golden ground, and golden figures upon a sky-blue ground, with sprays of flowers and other decorations, which prove the ancient splendor of the room. Every thing besides, bather's seats, tables, statues, all are gone, and are now preserved in the museums. The great business of life was, to the heathen, in time of peace, the enjoyment of life; in which was the luxury of the bath. We Christians have better and more important objects. The principal enjoyments of the bath are, in every case, pure water and the undisturbed repose of the time, and the Empress of Rome could not enjoy these in her splendid bath-room more than the humblest woman in a bathing-house devoid of all ornament. The power of enjoyment equalizes many differences in worldly fortune.
Another day I climbed, as in duty bound, up into the tower of the Capitol; but I was richly rewarded for the trouble. The sky was without a cloud, and beneath its light was spread out the vast Mosaic picture of Rome, in the greatest clearness and exactitude. The verdant gardens lay like little lost bouquets in this world of stone. The Tiber came out thence, like a little brook from its reservoirs, (I speak as it appeared from this point,) and soon lost itself behind Monte Aventino. The old Pagan Rome—the Rome of the Republic and the Empire, with its triumphal arches, the ruins of the Forum, of temples and palaces; the Papal Rome with the Vatican, and St. Peter's; the Quirinal with its San Giovanni di Lateran, Sta. Maria Maggiore, Scala Santa, pontifical gardens, its dwellings of priests and monks; the central Rome, with a few palaces, and an ant's-nest of lesser habitations, with the Ghetto, the Jews'-quarter, where they still all live together, though not now as formerly within walls, which Pio Nono has had removed—but still in the midst of darkness and dirt, although not, properly speaking, in poverty.[2] And, finally, the modern Rome, with its Corso, Monte Pincio, and Piazza di Spagna,—all these, properly the chief parts of Rome, indicate themselves with the greatest clearness from this point. The characteristic physiognomy of these several portions of the city, the verdant Campagna, and around it the encircling mountains, here and there scattered with snow, the extensive prairie-wide views in the direction of the sea, make the view of Rome from the tower of the Capitol a magnificent spectacle.
The ruins of the imperial Rome, from the Capitoline rock, appear to occupy but a small space in comparison with the newer part of the city. But the aqueducts and monuments of the Campagna show the greatness of the old imperial city. For the Rome of the present day, with its hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, is merely a small remnant of the world-ruling city, which in its circuit is said to have contained a populations of three millions, partly free and partly slaves.
People have in these later times sought in vain to discover the plan of ancient Rome. Time, the ravages of the Barbarians, and above all, those of the Komans and the emperors themselves, have so fundamentally destroyed and plundered the city, that this has become impossible. From a letter written by Raphael to Leo X., I have seen that the former proposed to undertake a picture which should represent the situation and splendor of ancient Rome, and he requests the Pope's aid for this purpose. Raphael is indignant, in his letter, against the manner in which the old grand buildings and works of art are treated. “Marble walls, statues, columns are broken for lime for the use of the new buildings. One may,” he writes, “say that the new Rome is built up with the lime of the old!” Death interrupted Raphael's undertaking, and now its accomplishment is no more to be thought of.
This old, ruinous Rome is immediately surrounded by merely insignificant houses and buildings, mostly inhabited by the poor. Clothes hang to dry around the Forum, and near the Capitoline rock; on the other side of the Via Sacra, rattle the looms of a cotton factory.
The present buildings of the Capitol are executed from drawings of Michael Angelo. The Roman Senate—or rather its shadow—assembles now in the central palace. In the two wings are museums of ancient works of art. I have, from those in the stone museum, merely taken, for my own private museum, two figures,—the head of Augustus as a child, and Augustus in old age; remarkable from their resemblance and contrast. One perfectly recognizes, in the aged head, the refined, handsome features of the boy; the form of the head is the same, and this is of a perfect Roman type, the head broad, rather than lofty, the forehead low, the expression is still mild, and even pure; but care has furrowed the brow; painful experience gives a bitter expression to the beautifully formed mouth; the imperial crown has depressed this clear, wise head. A head of Cæsar has still less of the Roman type. The countenance is long and narrow; the features, which are not beautiful, have here a more than usually noble and Cæsar-like expression. Three heads of Socrates, placed together, represent three degrees of ugliness. The sages and heroes of antiquity were, in a general way, not handsome people.
Now, my R——, I have nothing to tell you about the many galleries,—Doria, Berberini, Borghese, and others, which, like all other inquisitive and art-loving travelers in Rome, I have visited; neither about the Vatican, and its art-treasures. Good R——, do not expect that I shall weary you or myself with descriptions which so many others have given, and will give, better than I. Thank me, rather, that I will not detain you with that which cannot in any case be understood unless it be seen. Neither is it for these things that I have come hither. I have not come for the sake of the dead, but of the living. One thing I beg of you to believe, and that is, if you never visit Rome, if you are never able to behold any one of those immortal works of art which its museums contain, you may live a good, happy, and perfect life, nevertheless; nay, become fully as immortal, as well here as hereafter. But if you visit Rome, then visit the galleries of the Vatican; return, again and again, to the Apollo, the Laocoon, and—the Bacchus, the first philanthropist! Neglect not, either, to visit Raphael's picture of the transfiguration, in the Pope's picture-gallery. Without having seen it, no one can have any idea of his genius. This is all I have to tell you of the treasures of the Vatican.
One day when I was walking alone in its halls, a gen-d'arme said to me, hastily:
“You must go out of this room!—the Pope is coming! He is coming from the Sistine chapel, where he has been at mass!”
“Oh, let me remain here, I pray you!” I replied. “I should like to see the Pope!”
“Well, yes! but you must come out of the way, and fall upon your knees when he comes!”
“Sicuro!”
And we waited. My gen-d'arme protected me against the servants, who would have me out, and drilled me—“Now come here! now stand there! now fall on your knees!”
The Pope came, preceded by a splendid train. Cardinals, in purple mantles and ermine, bore their staves more proudly than princes, now-a-days; proudest of all, Cardinal Antonelli,—a very picturesque figure. The Pope, in scarlet attire, brought up the rear;—good tempered, stout, and jolly, without pretense, and without grandezza.
February 4th.—Yesterday, we saw Shakspeare's Othello acted at the Argentine theatre. The principal part was performed with effective truth and Italian fervor, by the actor Salvini. This tragedy, otherwise so distressing to me, by this means acquired beauty, and afforded me enjoyment which it had never done before. Madame Carrala Brizzi, who acted Desdemona, has also great talent, but her masculine voice is not in character with this part. In the Othello of Salvini, jealousy shows itself as a species of mental disease, which incapacitates the rational thinking soul. His silent action was a masterpiece.
Saturday, Feb. 6th.—The first Carnival day! In the afternoon the balconies were clothed with brilliant carpets and cloth, and some also hung from all the windows along the Corso. Comfits and bouquets were carried along the streets. At three o'clock in the afternoon the festival began. The Corso was filled with people and gens-d'armes; military, mounted and on foot, were posted at the corners of all the streets, as well as in the square. Crowds of ragged lads were loitering about the Corso, shouting as they followed any laughably-attired mask. Windows and balconies were filling with gentlemen and ladies in dominoes; some in costume. One saw many lovely faces. Jenny and I have been invited for the whole of the Carnival to the balcony of our amiable acquaintances in Rome, Mr. and Mrs. Grant. It is in San Carlo Square on the Corso, and from it one has an excellent view on every side of the Carnival-fun. We stand in dominoes, with some other people, amongst whom is the charming Duchess of St. Albans, with a young son and daughter, as handsome as the mother. The whole Corso, from the Piazza di Venezia to the Piazza del Popolo, looks like a festally decorated arena. But, for the first time during many weeks, the sky is gray and the streets are wet after rain, which has fallen in the night. It even now looks threatening, and already has rained a little, but the air is soft and calm; the tramontana has left Rome, and all windows are open. Some carriages, with masks in costume and dominoes, begin to drive up and down the Corso; the war with comfits and bouquets has begun between the pedestrians and those who are in carriages, between the people in the streets, and the people at the windows and in the balconies. They seek either to powder one another, or to make a present. Extremely beautiful bouquets and fine bonbons come amongst quantities of others, which are less beautiful, and not at all fine. One is obliged, in the mean time, to hold a fine wire gauze—in the form of a little scoop—before the face, if one would escape bruises. Our balcony is decorated with red and white, and along the outside of the iron railing, small boxes are hung for the bouquets and comfits. Our agreeable hostess belongs to the ornaments of her balcony, into which flowers are assiduously thrown by gentlemen in carriages and on foot.
The rainy, threatening clouds have damped a great deal of the merriments, and people say: “The Carnival has not yet begun, nor will it till Monday!”
At five o'clock a mounted troop of soldiers in close rank galloped at full speed up the Corso, in order to clear the streets, for now the horse-race was to begin.[3] The people gathered themselves close together by the walls of the houses; a pause succeeded, and then a loud exulting shout, which ran like wildfire along the Corso; and from the Piazza del Popolo sped, in flying career, a little troop of small horses, adorned with gold-paper wings or flags. Away they rush at full speed along the Corso up to the Piazza di Venezia, where they are stopped, and the judges of the race award the prizes which their owners shall receive. Scarcely have the swift-footed steeds passed, when the throng of people crowds after them like a swarming ant-hillock. This closes the amusements of the day, and every body goes home, the greater number of pedestrians, more's the pity!—under umbrellas; as do we, amongst the rest. But my young friend is delighted with the sport, has a great number of beautiful bouquets, and is extremely amused. We close our day by reading Guinginé's interesting history of Italian literature.
February 11th.—We are in the very height of the Carnival, but with unvarying, cloudy, and rain-threatening skies. On Monday it was so; the rain striving against the sun, and finally gaining the mastery. The Corso was, nevertheless, more animated than on Saturday, and the warfare of comfit and flowers was carried on very gayly; but the carriages continued to be few in number. People threw flowers at each other from balcony to balcony, from window to window, and people amused themselves with grand comfits strung upon long threads fastened to long sticks, like fishing lines, which they enticed their acquaintances from one story to another to catch, or they decoyed the boys in the streets with these same tempting baits, which the next moment were snatched up again. If any one wishes to be polite he fastens at the end of the string a beautiful flower, or some other pretty little thing, and allows it to be caught by the lady for whom it is intended. The street-boys, however, are in general, the greatest winners by this polite warfare; for everything which misses its object, and falls into the street, belongs to them, and that is not little.
The spectacle of the day again closed with horse-racing—only six horses—and then going home in drizzling rain. People deplored it with melancholy visages, especially, “on account of the poor,” who calculate upon their gains at the Carnival as furnishing them with their livelihood for many weeks. The little love-making sports of the Carnival, are not, however, prevented by the rain, and Jenny has gained an admirer who stands steadfastly before our balcony in San Carlo, and makes her, under his umbrella, the most ardent declaration both by looks and reverential gestures, sends her exquisite bouquets, and follows us home in the evening, at a distance. We call him L'inconnu.
Tuesday.—It cleared up in the morning, with a little sunshine at noon, whence were great anticipations. At half-past three the Corso is full of people, driving and walking, although the sky is again cloudy. People seem as though they would seize upon the day with fresh courage and good humor. The number of carriages increases, and there are many handsome costumes in them; the flower-warfare goes on briskly; the clouds, however, come down in showers of rain. But the people will not be driven away, and hoist their umbrellas; L'inconnu also perseveres, under his unbrella, with his hand upon his heart, and his eyes fixed upon our balcony. We, however, take flight into the drawing-room, where we console ourselves with beautiful songs by our hostess, and with Mendelsohn's Leider ohne Worte, played by a young German. Horse-racing, as on the preceding evenings, and going home in pouring rain.
“Make up your minds!” says the artist, Rudolf Lehman, “it will not be any better during the whole Carnival!”
He received, in reply, a chorus of ah! and oh!
N. B. Rudolf Lehman is one of the young men who are on very intimate terms with the family, and who come and go during the whole Carnival-time as it pleases them, and who thus add to the life and agreeableness of its society. How beautiful and cheerful all this would be, if the weather were but fine!—Good-night!
Wednesday.—Better weather! decidedly better!—The sky, however, is still cloudy, but without rain; and there is a perpetual movement on the Corso, and a skirmishing in Carnival fashion. Whilst Jenny drove with our amiable young countryman, Baron Nordenfalks, I went out upon a solitary ramble of observation, as I am fond of doing. First to the harbor of the Tiber, La Ripetta, where all was unusually quiet and deserted, but the Tiber, now swollen by the rain, rolled its waters more turbidly than ever beneath the dark, leaden-gray sky, carrying down impurity and dirty foam to the sea. It was a dismal scene. Thence I went to the Piazza del Popolo, where good military music was being played, and the carriages of the Corso turned round the obelisk of Heliopolis with its Egyptian lion; lastly, up to Monte Pincio, in order, from its summit, to look down upon the variegated scene below.
The air, which was unspeakably mild and soft, seemed to me like a youthful face bathed in tears—as one which wept without suffering. There was a promise of spring, of new, young life in this air, and the earth was fragrant as cowslips in Sweden. It went to my heart and quite affected me. From the hill-top I looked out over Rome. Its vast buildings appeared, in the present state of the atmosphere, quite close together. St. Peter's and the Capitol, the fortress of St. Angelo, the mausoleum of Adrian, and the ruins of the tower from which Nero saw Rome burning and rejoiced, the separate heights, the various chief points of Rome, all now lay as in a gloomy melancholy picture under the dark heavens. But a border of half-luminous light showed itself in the western horizon, and seemed to promise a brighter morrow. Crowds of priests, in three-cornered hats, were, with the exception of myself, the only wanderers on Monte Pincio, whence they viewed the festivities in the square, in which they were unable to participate.
Again at home in the twilight. Here I found my
young friend half-beside himherself, with the pleasures
and small adventures of the afternoon, and longing
only for the morrow, when she might again drive out
and skirmish with flowers and comfits on the Corso.
I then shall also take part in the promenade.
Tomorrow is a great masquerade day. May the sun
only shine a little on the sports, “for the sake of the
poor!” It is a good thing that people cannot buy
good weather; they would then run the risk of ruining
themselves out of pure sympathy.
Friday.—Never, surely, has the Roman Carnival had greater trials to go through! Yesterday morning was tolerably fine. There was a little sunshine at noon which brightened the souls of thousands of human beings, who, like Jenny and myself, kept continually directing their glances to the sky. But at half-past two, just when the gay scene commenced earlier than usual, the sky darkened with a desperately determined aspect, as if it would continue so the whole day, and pouring rain began. But the spirit of the Carnival had now taken possession of the inhabitants of Rome. Spite of the drenching rain, the Corso was crowded with all kinds of costumes and masks, in carriages and on foot; and windows, and balconies, and roofs, were thronged with dominoes and fantastic costume; bouquets of flowers and comfits showered down through the air. It became a habit of life with us. Jenny and I took part in it, whilst we drove with Nordenfalks; we had between us in the carriage a basket with bouquets and comfits, which was obliged to be refilled more than once. Two rows of carriages drove in close file along the Corso; they assaulted each other incessantly; besides which, they threw their missiles up to the windows and balconies, and received others in return. Sometimes a masquerading gentleman designs to present you with an extremely beautiful bouquet, but, if you do not take great care, it is quickly snatched away by some lad who jumps upon the step, or wheel of the carriage. Jenny lost in this way a lovely bouquet of camelias, and I, one to-day. Sometimes the procession of carriages is stopped by the crash, and woe then to the carriage or the ladies who happen to be stopped under a great balcony! For they are then overwhelmed by such a shower of chalk and powder-comfits, which rain down upon them like hail, that the dominoes and outer attire are, this wet weather, quite spoiled! This happened to us yesterday. One is fortunate, if one can keep one's eyes uninjured; but a great many of the uneducated class amuse themselves by throwing white powder into people's faces; and, if this gets into the eyes, it sometimes occasions long suffering. Sometimes one receives a great blow on the head from an immense bouquet, or a great piece of confectionary, as hard as a stone. But any one who enters into the sport must tolerate it, and happen what may, people are only the more excited and filled by the wild spirit of the time. In this way, we drove up and down the Corso, between the Piazza di Venezia and del Popolo, for two hours. That which interested me most, was to see the handsome Roman women in their holiday-costume. Standing in open loges in the lower story of the houses, they receive with stoical resignation the showers of comfits and bouquets which are incessantly aimed at their gold-adorned heads. Women of the peasant-class, dressed as if for a wedding-festival, with bare heads, adorned with red ribbons and grand ornaments, were also the principal figures in many of the carriages. Amongst the carriages were many which resembled the old Koman chariots, half a dozen persons, or more, standing in them in fantastic costume, sometimes very handsome. One carriage was filled with Neapolitan fishermen in holiday-dresses. Very few of the noble families of Rome, it was said, took part this year in the carriage-parade. The streets swarmed with harlequins, punchinellos, and jesters, who leaped about talking to people in the carriages and on foot, inviting to drink, pretending themselves to be intoxicated, and spilling the beer or water on the right hand and left. Crowds of castanet-players and dancers, in every variety of laughable, grotesque, and most frequently tatterdemalion costume; beating drums, and so on, making a horrible din. Sometimes in the midst of all this wild confusion, a kind of French Courtier would come, mincing along, in old-fashioned costume, leading a lady, also in antique attire, and gazing to the right hand and the left, through an immense opera-glass, making in the mean time the most polite bows. However much he might be pushed about, or be-powdered; mattered not, he only gazed through his opera-glass, and bowed all the more, and never lost his self-possession. In the midst of all this whirl and confusion, comes a brilliant procession. It is the Governor of the city, and the Roman Senate, driving in a great number of splendid carriages, with splendid horses and servants. Gold and velvet shine oat, and liveries which appear to be colored with fire. The brilliant cortege advanced with great dignity, through the many-colored mass of the Corso, up to the Capitol.
Towards dusk, the light in the street became ever more tumultuous and wild. It still rained, and now very heavily; but people forgot the rain, and every thing else, excepting that they had promised to amuse themselves with as little restraint as possible. But the life of the streets and the boys predominated more and more. Dirty bouquets were thrown into the carriages, and there was need for people to take great care of themselves. We began to long for home; even Jenny had enjoyed enough of carnival-pleasure; but the carriages would not leave the scene of strife, and they were now so numerous, that is was impossible to avoid frequent stoppages. As length was heard the double firing, the signal that the carriages must leave the place, and all now hastily dispersed. The troop of cavalry enter at a heavy trot and clear the street, and the next moment fire from the race-horses' feet, is seen in the twilight. The prize run for this evening is a banner worth fifty scudi, and which was won by a horse belonging to the Borghese family.
Again at home, we merrily talked over the events of the day, at our tea-table, with some of our countrymen, and then went to the Theatre Capronica, to see a folks-theatre and folk-life there. But I do not advise any body else to do so, for it is neither amusing nor instructive, unless it be to teach how people ought not to play, and ought not to sing. The grand Roman women, in their splendid popular costume, were the only beautiful objects to look at. It was, however, amusing to see the spectacle in the streets, on our way home. In one rather narrow by-street, a group of figures in costume, were dancing the saltarella, to the sound of the tambourine, with such enthusiasm as not to be disturbed by the carriages that rolled past, nor even by one that actually went right through the dancing group. One of the dancers fell by this means, and let go his tambourine, but the next moment he was up again on his feet, dancing away, light and graceful, so that it was a delight to behold. When we reached the Corso, we heard a lovely, rather melancholy Neapolitan melody, played upon the mandolin, and along the muddy trottoir came dancing silver-glittering figures, light as a couple of children of the air; after them followed a mandolin player, and some ladies and gentlemen. Light-footed, and apparently light-hearted, the young pair sprang forward with inimitable grace, along the trottoir, keeping time to the music, and vanished as if into the dark night, whilst the light of the street-lamps here and there, lit up their shimmering forms. The night-air was damp and raw; a few pale stars sought in vain to find their way through the clouds. The public houses on our way were lighted up, and crowded with people, and far into the night we could hear the tones of the mandolin player wandering by.
Wednesday, February 17th.—I will now briefly relate the after progress of the Carnival. The Friday of the past week was held as a quiet day, and well it was so, for it rained incessantly. Two young Englishmen, in the story below us, amused themselves the whole day, by throwing down great shovelsful of chalk-comfits upon every umbrella, which came under their balcony. They blistered their hands very much with doing so; and really, what pleasure they could find in it I cannot tell.
Saturday was, at length, a fine, cloudless day, and every face in Rome seemed to clear up with it. The Via Condotti and San Carlo shone like a regular flower-market. Numbers of carriages were on the Corso, elegant costumes and elegant little bonbons; great politeness between gentlemen and ladies, but considerably less of life and fewer masks than on Thursday, when it was a general masquerade-day, and the people, as it were, were out of all bounds.
Sunday was also a glorious, sunshiny day. The Carnival rested itself; no masks were to be seen; but half of Rome drove in procession up to Monte Pincio, and circled round its green, peaceful grounds, where the fountains played, the roses shone out and diffused their fragrance. Jenny and I wandered along the banks of the Tiber, beyond the Porta del Popolo, one of the most agreeable promenades which I have yet discovered near Rome; for one can there be as solitary as in the country, walk down by the river, and along the other side amongst gardens, enjoying the while, as grand and extensive views as if there were no city near. This road is called “Poussin's Promenade,” because the great painter used to go along it from Rome to his villa at Ponte Molle. One sees here an horizon such as one often finds in Poussin's pictures. Afterwards we went up Monte Pincio, and saw the great world sweep round, and the sun go down.
In the evening, I went, with some of our countrymen, to the ball, which is at this time given annually to the models in Rome. A large room with a dark brick floor and a number of cigar-smoking gentlemen did not promise much for the ball. In the middle of the room, however, an open space is left where men and women in the Italian national costume danced their national dances. The men distinguished themselves advantageously by their appearance, costume, and dancing. Some of them would have made a very good figure in the ballet of any theatre whatever. The women were less agreeable, except, however, the remarkably handsome model Alessandra. But her beauty was withered at the age of twenty! and her dancing was rather too much studied. A very young girl, whose countenance beamed with soul, danced with life and enthusiasm. It was lovely to see her dancing with her father, the model Angelino, a handsome man of thirty and the principal cavalier of the ball. In the mean time the dancers went round and regaled the strangers with red wine. Every thing went on in an orderly, simple, cheerful, and respectable manner. The dances which they danced were the Salterello, the Ballerina, and the Sospiro. The Saltarello is a kind of Tarantella (which is pre-eminently a Neapolitan dance,) and, as it were, a continued improvisation, in which the dancers advance and retreat according to pleasure, and which is danced after the heart's pleasure and inspiration. It seems to me to be the ideal of all dancing when it becomes the expression of the joy and delight of life. I was never tired of following the soft and bold movements of the dancers as they now approached and now withdrew from each other, with gestures expressive, now of playful defiance, now of cordiality, and a joyful abandon. There is foaming champagne in this dance.
La Ballerina is a kind of cotillion, but has in it, with the Italians, an element of mimicry and of improvisation, which is not to be found in the weak and tame cotillion of our drawing-rooms. Il Sospiro, struck me as the most original of the dances. In it, men and women alternately sigh for each other; and in it is represented a whole series of love-episodes; as Angelino explained them to me.
But to return to the Carnival—of which the model's ball is an offspring.
Monday came, and with it a cloudy sky and cloudy countenances; and in the afternoon rain and storm worse than on the preceding days! The Carnival now lost its spirit. Only a few carriages and fewer pedestrians on the Corso, whose inhabitants threw their bouquets into the mud, and the street-boys did not think it worth while to pick them up. It is very annoying! and the morrow is the last day of the Carnival, tbe great day, the Moccoli-day; for the Carnival will then die and people will celebrate its funeral according to the Catholic custom of lighting candles for the dead. It is said to be a grand spectacle, but will be a dismal one if the weather do not change.
Yes, it did change. The Moccoli-day, Shrove Tuesday, brought with it the brightest sun and an atmosphere so pure and so fresh that all anxiety and doubt on account of the day was over, and people thought about nothing but how to enjoy themselves with all their might. A fresh supply of flowers and comfits, and new costumes were provided. All the ladies dressed themselves in their best, every lady looked cheerful and handsome—even the ill-favored. Already, at half-past two in the afternoon, every balcony, and window, and loge on the Corso was beaming with happy faces and splendid toilets. Trains of maskers danced along the street to the music of the tambourine; crinolines of untold dimensions, huge noses, hats, and every kind of eccentricity was to be seen. Carriages drive along filled with beautiful costumes both with and without masks; here you see classical, there comic figures. Amongst the most ornamental even now, must be mentioned, the Roman peasant-girls or women in their holiday costume. Numbers of them will sit aloft on the thrown-back heads of the carriages and thus receive the shower of bouquets and comfits.
It is an immense throng and whirl, but every body in the very best humor. One is a good friend, sister, or brother, to the whole world. One exchanges nods and smiles, flowers, and little gifts, with people whom one has never seen before, and probably shall never see again; one accepts the liking which the moment inspires and is influenced by; one makes a number of new acquaintances, with whom one makes merry in the passing drive, and then forgets; greets one's old acquaintance, and showers down one's bonbons and flowers more zealously than ever. Thus rushes on the Carnival, uninterruptedly, till dusk, when, as usual, the military clear the streets for the horse race. This evening, a greater number of horses run than hitherto, and they are greeted with a terrific shout of jubilation.
Scarcely is this over, when again the Corso is filled with carriages; the throng of people becomes ever greater, and soon one sees, through the increasing darkness, here and there a candle lighted. They are extinguished, but soon re-lighted; the number still more increases—they shine out from every carriage and point of the streets, from every balcony and window, the whole length of the Corso, which is soon transformed into a billowy stream of flames, continually in movement, continually glimmering and blazing; and above the whole heaving stream of fire, sounds an infinite buzz, and murmur of merry voices and outcries.
The sport which is now carried on, consists in every body endeavoring to extinguish his neighbor's candle, which is carefully kept burning, or immediately lighted again. You extinguish them by blowing them out, or with your hands or your handkerchief, or with any thing you can. White-clad punchinellos leap upon the carriages and extinguish their lights, often violently enough, and then shout triumphantly, “Senza moccoli! senza moccoli!”
But the extinguished moccoli—larger or smaller wax tapers, in bundles—are re-lighted immediately, and the stream of flame heaves and gleams as before. Thus, for a couple of hours, after which it ceases by degrees, partly because people are tired of the sport, and partly for want of candles. On our balcony, in San Carlo, where we found ourselves in the same agreeable company as hitherto, the moccoli fight was carried on vigorously, and in good earnest, yet very politely. Finally, I found myself, to my own amazement, last of all, with a moccoli bunch in one hand, and in the other a torch, which I myself extinguished, by swinging it round in the air.
At eight o'clock, all was still and dark. The Carnival was dead and buried, but with great honor, and people congratulated themselves and each other, on its honorable termination. My young friend, who had celebrated her Carnival with all honor and glory, was in no small degree contented with it, and her sheaf of bouquets and memories.
I have been told that the memories of the Carnival become, not unfrequently, of serious import to the whole after-life; and many a little intrigue, which has then its beginning, is carried on afterwards, and finds its end in—a wedding. The so-called Carnival acquaintance begins generally by a gentleman seeing a lady in a balcony, or at a window, who pleases him. He throws bouquets up to her. If she respond, he throws up others, remains steadfastly in his place, sends up to her beautiful flowers and bouquets, follows his elect, at a respectful distance, on her way home, ventures upon a salutation, and afterwards upon a letter, and then—but I do not know any thing more about the affair, excepting that sometimes it ends with a wedding, sometimes, also, by the lady proudly sending back the lover's letter. It may probably have happened that she, like Jenny, lost all romantic illusions when she saw L'inconnu take—a pinch of snuff!
The Moccoli-day did not end for us in Mrs. Grant's elegant drawing-room, but in an Osteria near the Palazzo Borghese, where we, this evening, were to witness a scene of popular life. It was gay, harmless, and picturesque, the dancers and the costumes similar to those at the model's ball, but less beautiful. The fumes of tobacco and the crowd compelled us soon to leave the place, and we are now paying the penalty of our Carnival-pleasure in a severe attack of influenza. But two-thirds of the inhabitants of Rome are in the same condition—not a very agreeable result of the Carnival.
To-day—Ash Wednesday—the official newspaper, Giornale di Roma, the only large newspaper published in Rome, contains a solemn proclamation which commences with a high-flown glorification of the happiness of belonging to “the only true and saving church, which is alone infallible and immovable.” After this a great deal is said about the solicitude of his holiness the Pope, for his flock—particularly that of Rome, and that this solicitude has induced him to appoint this fast-day as a special jubilee, which shall be celebrated with preaching in all the churches and by an Indulgenza plenaria[4] to all such as will conform to certain conditions which will be further made known in the churches. This pompous proclamation concludes with a detailed bill of fare as to what people may, or may not eat during the fast. All intermixtures of flesh-meat, and fish, in una medissima commestione, are strictly forbidden. But broth made from meat may at the same time be given with fish in cases where strengthening food is required. On certain days it is permitted to take eggs as well as particular parts of pork, even for picciola refezione at mid-day. But restaurateurs and confectioners are threatened with severe punishment, if without permission, they should, on particular days in the week, serve out portions of egg and milk. It is in the mean time especially permitted to all the inhabitants of Rome, except on certain days in the week, to eat meat during Lent, as well as strutto ed unto per condimento. The Cardinal-vicar who drew up this very long bill of fare did not, probably, bear in mind the words of Paul, that nothing is to be rejected which is received with thanksgiving and prayer! and also the beautiful words of St. Augustine, “Love God and do whatever you like.”
February 20th.—Soirée at the Grant's; very elegant and amusing. The Grants belong to the few foreigners in Rome who see at their house also the Roman society. This was a great reception; and amongst the guests of various nations were several picturesque figures. Foremost on this account amongst the gentlemen was Cardinal Antonelli, and also a younger and very handsome monsignore. Antonelli does not appear to be above forty; he has a strongly-marked countenance of the true Italian character; handsome dark eyes, with a penetrative glance, gloomy or bright, according to the sentiment which they express—dangerous eyes, it seems to me, they would be to those on whom their glance was directed in love. The countenance is pale; the features regular, even handsome, all except the mouth, which is large, with large teeth, and devoid of agreeable sentiment when speaking. In short, the countenance has a commanding expression. An abundance of dark brown hair waves from under the red cap, and falls in waving curls upon the pale cheeks. The whole figure is picturesque, “artistic,” in effect, to which also the costume, the red cardinal-stockings, the large silver buckles, the short silk cloak, and the red cap, contribute in no small degree. Antonelli has in his manner all the self-possession and ease of a perfect man of the world. With ladies, his manners are elegant and insinuating. I had a short conversation with him, in which, I do not remember from what cause, we came to speak of experience. Antonelli said that it was “a great advantage.” I thought that this advantage had not a particularly good reputation, and I wanted first to inquire, in what sense the Cardinal regarded it as good, but we were interrupted by the music, and I wait with my question till another time. The Grants, who like Antonelli greatly, will take me to see his valuable collection of minerals, which he has pleasure in showing to foreigners. A far more valuable collection, namely, of jeweled rings, is shown only to few; to the select of his intimate friends.
Amongst duchesses, countesses, ladies, and so on, were some very expensive and beautiful dresses, but which one might fear would fall off their wearer's shoulders. Not a beautiful style this! Some were very original, but becoming costumes, and two young girls were very pretty. Prettiest of all was our charming hostess. We had music at the piano. A young Italian maestro sang like a “thousand devils,” to use the expression of Sergel; another sang languishing ballads, but without truth or nature. Two English ladies, a mother and daughter, sang beautifully some of Thomas Moore's sentimental songs, and lastly, our hostess, who is thoroughly musical, a German folk's-song, which she sang excellently, with all its freshness and inspiration. The very air of the forest seemed for a moment to be wafted through the room. Monsignore L——o was enchanted by the music, and laying his hand on his breast, he gave himself up to its inspiration. He told me a good deal about Calabria, of which he is a native, and also various things connected with the religious orders and brotherhoods in Rome, which were interesting to me.
- ↑ Perhaps they are afraid of ghosts, as was the watchman on the Thermæ of Caracalla, which I visited to-day. I asked him if he remained there all night. “Heaven forbid!” replied he, with horror; and added, mysteriously, “He, the old Caracalla, comes again! I myself saw him once! He looks horrible, with horns and claws! A Padre has, since then, sprinkled all the rooms here with holy water, and repeated an exorcism—but nobody can trust to that doing any good! He is un diavolo!” The still splendid remains of these baths, mosaic floors, &c., were, during the Mazzini triumvirate, cleared, and rendered visible. Author's Note.
- ↑ They are preserved from poverty by their great industry and their fidelity to the command of Moses, “There shall be no poor amongst you!” The poor are in this respect an example, which the Christians do not equal. The narrow, dirty streets, and the dense population of the Ghetto, as well as the bad air, produce a depressing effect. But this population, which in great part labors out of doors, sitting in the streets, is cheerful, and obviously in comfortable circumstances; and I have been assured that the air there is healthy, far healthier than on the open Campagna.—Author's Note.
- ↑ I learned with astonishment that the Jews, resident in Rome, are compelled to furnish the money which is run for at these races, and which the owner of the winning horse receives, and also that by such payment the Jews purchase annually the exemption of themselves running on the Corso, and also permission to remain yet another year in Rome. Anciently it was the Jews who were obliged to run races during the Carnival for the amusement of the Christian populace; and the assent which was given to their prayer to continue yet another year in Rome, was accompanied with—a kick! Both the racing and the kick are now dispensed with, but it is declared that they are continued in the manner in which the permission is given. For the humiliating tribute is still exacted, and yet the Roman state claims to be called the “most Christian,” and the most civilized, and its church the mother of Christendom.—Author's Note.
- ↑ That is to say, forgiveness of all sins, hitherto committed.—Author's Note.