CHAPTER IX
ROMAN DAYS
When Irma awoke on her first morning in Rome, she felt that one of herreal desires was gratified. She was in the city she most wished to see.Looking at her watch she found it was too early for breakfast, and shedid not care to go down ahead of the others in this new, strange hotel.So, seated in an easy-chair, she tried to recall some of the incidentsof her journey of the day before, the five hours' ride that had seemedlong, on account of the heat. The country through which they passed hadbeen interesting, though she had seen few of the picturesque peasantsworking in the fields that she expected to see on every side. In thedistance, however, she had had glimpses of snow-clad mountains, andoccasionally on a hill a monastery or castle, or even a small walledtown.
Then across a vast plain to the right was the unmistakable dome of St.Peter's. Yes, she could write home that at the first sight of Rome herheart had beaten quicker. After the sunny ride from the station throughcrowded streets all, even the indefatigable Uncle Jim, had been tired,too tired, after unpacking, to do anything but rest, until at fiveo'clock they had gone to the large hotel near by for afternoon tea.
"This isn't Rome," Aunt Caroline had said, as they sat there over theirtea and cakes, listening to the music. "It is the Waldorf-Astoria, andthese people moving about are largely Americans. To-morrow we shall seeRome."
"To-day is to-morrow," murmured Irma, in her easy-chair, "and I wonderwhat we shall see first in Rome. I am sure I should never know where tobegin."
Aunt Caroline decided for her. Then when they first set out, she wouldnot tell her just what they were to see until they had mounted the stepsof an old casino; after passing through a little courtyard,--all thatremained of the once fine Rospigliosi garden.
"Look up," cried Aunt Caroline, as they stood in the large salon hungwith pictures, and there on the ceiling, more beautiful than anyreproduction, Irma saw the familiar Aurora, the godlike auburn-hairedvision and the spirited horses: Apollo seen in a strong yellowish light,and the attendant hours in robes shading from blue to white, and fromgreen to white, with reddish browns in the draperies of the nymphnearest him, and Aurora herself, a lovely figure, scattering flowers inhis path.
In the beautiful gallery, with its carvings and paintings, there wereother fine pictures, but as she went away Irma still remembered only theAurora.
The warm sun beat on their heads as they re-entered their carriage. "TheRoman summer has begun," said Aunt Caroline, "though it is only May. Wemust accustom ourselves now to a daily siesta and save our strength; butfirst for letters."
A rapid drive brought them to their bankers, opposite the SpanishSteps. Irma recognized the place immediately from pictures she had seen,and while Aunt Caroline went inside for letters, she ran across thepiazza to buy a bunch of roses from one of the picturesque flower girlsgathered on the lower steps. But when, on the house at the right-handcorner, she read an inscription stating that in this house John Keatshad died, she immediately unfolded her camera. She was so interested inher photograph, that when she saw her aunt standing by the carriage sherecrossed the street without the flowers.
"Here are letters for all of us," said Aunt Caroline, "even for Marion;two for him, the first he has had, poor boy!"
"Aunt Caroline," asked Irma, for the first time since they sailedventuring to put the question, "why do you say 'poor boy' when you speakof Marion?"
Aunt Caroline, who usually answered questions so quickly, was silent forso long that Irma wondered if her audacity had offended her. Then shereplied gravely, "Marion has had a most unhappy experience. It is hardto say yet whether he is to be blamed or pitied. Until he is ready totalk about it, your uncle and I prefer not to speak on the subject, evenwith Marion himself. But when the right time comes, you shall know allabout it."
With this Irma, for the present, had to be content. But she realizedthat the idle remarks of her acquaintance at Cava had some foundation infact. At _dejeuner_ Aunt Caroline gave Marion his letters, and Irmanoticed that his face reddened as he looked at the envelopes, and thatthen he put them unopened in his pocket. This she thought a strange wayof treating his first home letters. But then Marion was a strange boy.
Irma herself had impatiently torn open her own letters even while in thecarriage, and had partly read Gertrude's before reaching her hotel.
"We miss you awfully," she wrote, "and Lucy and I hope you won't be sotaken up with that other girl that you'll forget all about us."
"She hadn't received my Azores letter about Marion," mused Irma, "whenshe wrote that. I am sure I wish that Marion were a girl instead of sucha queer kind of boy."
"You remember," continued Gertrude, "how jealous you used to be ofSally? Yes, you were, though you wouldn't admit it; well that's the wayI feel about your Marian. But even if I am jealous, I do hope that youlook better than when you left home, and that you are having a perfectlystunning time. I suppose you will be in Rome when you get this, and Iwonder if you have seen the Queen--I mean Margherita. I have aphotograph of her that I love, so don't dare come back without seeingher so you can tell me if she is like it. No matter if she hasn'tinvited you to call, just leave your card, and perhaps they will let youin accidentally. We miss you terribly at school. Until we are called upto recite we never know whether our translations are right. I wonder ifyou find the old inscriptions in Rome more fun than Caesar. We've justhad a week of early warm weather, and we girls have decided to let JohnWall and George Belman fight for the head of the class."
"The letter sounds just like Gertrude," said Irma, as she finished, "andthough it has no news, it makes home seem much nearer."
"Yet you sighed when you finished it; you mustn't let us think you arehomesick," and Aunt Caroline patted Irma's shoulder, as they entered thehouse together.
"There's only one thing for to-day," said Uncle Jim, after _dejeuner_,as they waited for the carriage. "There are said to be three hundred andsixty-five churches in Rome, and if you intend to see them all, you mustbegin at once with the largest and most important."
"But I don't intend to see them all," expostulated Irma, "nor a tenth ofthem."
"Then you must begin with St. Peter's just the same. You have been inthe Eternal City now nearly twenty-four hours without visiting St.Peter's. Such a thing is unheard of and will bring disgrace on us all.Ah, here's the carriage, and your reform will begin."
"Talk of floods in the Tiber," cried Irma, as they drove along the bankof the historic stream. "A little river like that could never do anydamage. It could not be energetic enough to overflow its banks,especially when it's so fenced in."
"Even in modern times the embankment has sometimes failed to keep it inplace," said Uncle Jim, "and in its three miles of wanderings the yellowTiber is sometimes hard to manage. There, there, doesn't that pleaseyou?" and Irma answered with an exclamation of delight, glancing beyondthe bridge to the other side, where she had her first view of the CastleSt. Angelo, Hadrian's tomb, the antique circular structure around whichclusters so much history.
But their horses were quick, and their driver did not stop for a longview; and after a turn or two they were soon crossing the sunny, pavedpiazza in front of St. Peter's, with its obelisk and fountain.
"This is to be only the most general view. You must come again some daywhen there is a great ceremony, when you can see various dignitaries;now you are merely to get a first impression."
"A first impression!" cried Irma. "Can I put it into words? It's atremendous building; I shall never see another as large, and yet, itdoesn't seem too large. What a great man the architect was!"
"I have been reading up a little to-day," said Marion, "so things arefresh in my mind. I won't pretend I'll remember them to-morrow, but it'strue that this is not the first church on the spot. In the beginningthere was a circus of Nero's here, where that beautiful emperor was inthe habit of torturing Christians to death. There's a tradition that St.Peter himself was burned here, and so Constantine built the first St.Peter's over the spot. Perhaps
we can go down into the tomb to-day."
"But this isn't Constantine's church?" There was a decided note ofinterrogation in Irma's voice. Perhaps it would have been better for hernot to ask the question, for Marion's reply was in the nature of a snub.
"Any one can see that this St. Peter's is comparatively new. It wasbegun by Julius II in the first part of the sixteenth century, andBramante probably made the original plans."
"Why, I thought Michelangelo----"
"Yes, my dear," interposed Uncle Jim, "in the end Michelangelo did cometo the rescue of the first plan. For after Bramante died, leaving thebuilding far from completed, some of his successors made changes thataffected the beauty of the building. I believe the dome was largely theresult of Michelangelo's skill."
"It took long enough to finish it!" exclaimed Marion, who had beenlooking at his guidebook. "It was not consecrated until 1626, more thana hundred years after Bramante's death."
"Just six years after the landing of the Pilgrims," added Irma.
"To compare small things with great," said Uncle Jim, with a laugh.
"Which is which?" asked Irma, and for the moment no one answered.
"Perhaps you don't care for guidebook information. But up to the end ofthe seventeenth century, St. Peter's had cost about fifty milliondollars, and it now takes about eighteen thousand dollars a year tomaintain it."
"The salary of one of our ambassadors for a year," interpolated Irma."Don't laugh," she cried, "that's the way I always try to rememberthings."
"Then," continued Marion, "perhaps you will remember the height of thedome, four hundred and thirty-five feet from the cross to the pavement,is twice that of Bunker Hill Monument."
"We are getting into the realm of useless knowledge," protested UncleJim, "and as this is but a bird's-eye view, we need only remember thebeautiful proportions of the dome and the grandeur of the whole. Yetthere are one or two things to see now. I must point out Canova's tombof Clement XIII, and over there, by the door leading to the dome, you'llfind Canova's monument to the last of the Stuarts. You ought to go overthere and shed a tear or two, Irma, for you doubtless have the usualschool girl sentimentality for the Stuarts. There are busts of the OldPretender and his two sons."
"Guidebook information would probably be as useful as that of amisguided guide," said Irma, refusing to express herself about theStuarts.
"Twenty-nine altars and one hundred and forty-eight columns," readMarion.
"Come," said Uncle Jim, "don't listen to him. I can show you somethingbetter worth seeing," and he led her to the nave, where he showed her inthe pavement the round slab of porphyry on which the emperors wereformerly crowned.
"Why, Charlemagne, of course," began Irma, and then she reddened. ForMarion was standing near, and she suddenly realized that Charlemagne hadbeen dead eight hundred years before St. Peter's was consecrated.
"Oh, it was in Constantine's church that Charlemagne was crowned, butthough this slab is older than the present St. Peter's, I doubt that heor his earlier successors stood on it, and best of all, I doubt thatMarion can inform us," he concluded in a whisper.
When at last the four turned toward the door, Irma noticed the peopleabout her more than she had on entering. Bareheaded peasants werewalking about in groups; laboring men, who had stolen an hour from work,bowed before various altars. Tourists of all nations were studyingmosaic pictures, sculptured tombs, or were gazing at the priests in richvestments and the altar boys in one of the chapels where there was aservice. Here an old woman hobbled along, and there was a mother withtwo or three awestruck children. There were two or three soldiers inuniform, and several long-coated priests, visitors evidently fromoutside Rome.
"It is the People's Church," said Aunt Caroline, "the church of thepeople of the whole world," she added. "There may not be as manylanguages as there are people in this large building, but I'll warrant adozen nations are represented here."
The fifteenth century bronze doors of St. Peter's amused Irma, withtheir curious mingling of Christian and pagan subjects, Europa and thebull, Ganymede, as well as scenes directly from the scriptures. She hada chance to admire her favorite Charlemagne, whose statue on horsebackand one of Constantine were on either side of the entrance.
"Over there," and Uncle Jim pointed to the left, "is the Germancemetery, which Constantine originally filled with earth from Mt.Calvary, and made the first Christian burying ground. We have as littletime for that to-day as for the sacristy with its treasures, or thechapels with their pictures and sculptures. There is just one otherimportant thing to see before we reach our hotel. Wake up, _cocchiere_,here we are."
As they drove between the colonnades away from St. Peter's and thenalong the Tiber bank, Uncle Jim called their attention to the new Romerising on every side.
"It is the Rome of the masses," he said. "Many of these tall apartmenthouses are occupied by people of very moderate means. And see that greatpublic building across the river! It is as ugly as some of our own cityhalls."
Their coachman now took a turn through narrow streets, crowded withpeople, to Aunt Caroline's disgust. "There may be all kinds of diseasesfloating about here."
But hardly had her protest been heard, when they drove up in front of aportico that Marion recognized at once. "The Pantheon! We were thinkingso much of the narrow streets that we did not see where we were."
"Yes," responded Uncle Jim, "the Pantheon. He brought us the shortestway. I suppose you know this is the only ancient building in Rome. Wallsand vaulting are the same as in the time of Hadrian. It goes back evenfarther than Hadrian, for Augustus's son in law, Agrippa, founded thetemple, dedicated probably to the gods of the seven planets. Whenpaganism died, it had no use for many years until Phocas the Tyrantpresented it to the Pope, and it was dedicated to the Christian religionin 604."
"You can't mention anything happening in our country just then," saidAunt Caroline, turning to Irma.
"I might, but I won't, though I do remember that this was severalhundred years earlier than our Leif Ericson," she retorted. "Uncle Jim,you did very well, even though you had to turn to your notebook."
"I'll admit that I had read up a few figures for this occasion, you andMarion sometimes put me so to the blush. But what do you think of it?"
For a full minute Irma was silent as she looked around the vastinterior. "I am afraid," she began, "I am afraid that I like it betterthan St. Peter's. In some way it seems grander."
"You needn't be afraid; older and wiser persons have been heard to saythe same thing. A circular building is always impressive, and nointerior in the world has finer proportions than this. In some ways itisn't what it once was. The bronze casings of part of the walls one ofthe popes once stripped off to make cannon for St. Angelo, and in theeighteenth century the beautiful marbles of the attic story above werecovered with whitewash, but nothing can destroy the beautifulproportions."
"Don't tell us what they are," urged Aunt Caroline. "It would destroyhalf the effect to hear what it is in feet and inches."
"There's just one thing Irma ought to know, since she quite scorns aguidebook now. That open aperture in the centre of the dome that lookslike a small hole is thirty feet across. It is the only way of lightingthe building."
"What do they do when it rains?" asked Irma.
"Why, they let it rain."
"Marion," exclaimed Aunt Caroline, "if you are willing to repeat so agedand infirm a joke as that, you must be feeling better."
Marion glanced toward Irma, but she made no sign as to whether or notshe, too, scorned the joke.
"Twenty-eight wagon loads of bones," she was saying.
"Yes, my dear, it was dedicated to Santa Maria ad Martyres, andnaturally this was regarded as a more fitting place than the Catacombsfor their final interment. Yet the sacredness of the place didn'tprevent Constans II from stripping the gilt tiles from the dome to usein Constantinople. But now you are to look at only two tombs on your wayout, this of Victor Emanuel, which is always covered with wrea
ths, andover there Raphael's tomb--only a passing glance at each--and notice thewonderfully beautiful marbles of the pavement. It would repay yousometime to study them, and the--run, my dear, ask your aunt to hurry,"he concluded hastily.
"We shall have time for the Corso," said Uncle Jim, as they drove off.
But the Corso proved disappointing to Marion and Irma.
"It is neither wide nor long, and why people with fine carriages andfootmen should enjoy driving here at the end of a pleasant springafternoon I can't understand," complained Marion. "Why, it's so crowdedthat there's no particular pleasure in being here."
"That's why most people are driving here, to see and be seen; that'spart of the fun of living for the idler Italians, and as they can't sitabout in piazzas like their countrymen and women a few grades belowthem, exchanging nods from a carriage is the next best thing. And youcan't deny that the shop windows are attractive."
"It's almost like driving for pleasure on Washington Street, in Boston,"said Irma, scornfully, "only it's a little less crowded, and there areno surface cars."
"Though you speak sarcastically, young lady, just now I won't attempt tostand up for Il Corso," retorted Uncle Jim.
"It doesn't begin to compare with Fifth Avenue," said Marion.
"It doesn't pretend to, young patriot. I simply brought you here to doas the Romans do fine afternoons. Some day you'll drive on the Pincianat the fashionable hour, and after that I'd like to hear your Americancomparisons."
"But where in the world can you find a street short as Il Corso withmore associations with great men? Over there's the house where Shelleywrote 'The Cenci,' and Goethe's home in Rome is not far away. A littleoff at one side you'll find Donizetti's house, and on the other SirWalter Scott's, and just ahead of us is the Bonaparte Palace, whereMadame Letitia spent her sad later years. You hardly have to turn out ofyour way to find the remains of old temples, and there in the Piazza isthe Marcus Aurelius Column."
"Oh, it's inter--," but with the word unfinished, Marion put his hand tohis hat as if to bow to some one in a passing carriage. He did notreally bow, however, and the others noticed that he reddened deeply.
"That looked like the fairy godfather!" cried Irma.
"Whom I consider a myth," responded Uncle Jim.
But Marion said nothing.
Irma's first week in Rome seemed to pass almost as quickly as her firstday. Though she had been sightseeing constantly, she still had not seenthe Colosseum, the Forum, or the Vatican treasures. Each day was notlong enough. In the morning she usually visited some gallery with heraunt. But in the warmer hours, from twelve to three, they rested. Someobject of interest and a drive took the later afternoon, and by eveningall were too tired to do anything but sit about and compare experienceswith one another or with their hotel acquaintances.
"I haven't forgotten your advice," wrote Irma in a long letter to hermother, "to remember clearly at least one or two things from eachgallery. In the Borghese there is Canova's beautiful statue of Pauline,Napoleon's sister, and Titian's Holy and Profane Love, and in theColonna that enormous ceiling painting--I almost broke my neck lookingup at it--of the Battle of Lepanto, where some Prince Colonna fought,and some wonderful ivory carvings, one of them, in a few square inches,shows all the figures of Michelangelo's Last Judgment. Then in the Doriais Velasquez' Pope Julius X, in his red robes, and some Claude Lorrainesthat I liked.
"Then I loved Domenichino's Sybil, in the Borghese, and I can neverforget the Saint Sebastians I have seen. It may be wicked to laugh at amartyr, but it is almost wickeder for artists to make a good man looklike a pincushion stuck full of arrows. The Doria Palace is thehandsomest of all, with its gilded furniture and fine ceilings andpolished floors. How gorgeous it must have looked when a ball was giventhere in the old days. I'd like to have seen the private apartments andthe Colonna gardens. They say it was from a building in the ColonnaGardens that Nero watched Rome burning. On certain days these galleriesare free, but generally you pay admission to a regular ticket taker in agilt-banded cap. I wonder if the princes who own these palaces makemoney by showing their pictures, or if public spirit leads them to opentheir houses.
"One day Marion and I went to the Lateran where the popes lived beforethey had the Vatican, and please tell Tessie that the first thing welooked at was the Scala Sancta, or Holy Stairs, that they say were inPontius Pilate's house in Jerusalem, over which Christ once walked. Onthis account people must go up and down them on their knees. But it isonly on Holy Week that many do this. There are twenty-eight marblesteps, although all you can see, as you look through the narrow door, isthe wooden covering that protects them. The Empress Helena,Constantine's mother, brought them here. Tessie used to be interested inthese Holy Stairs on account of a picture in one of her Sunday-schoolbooks, and she will be glad to know I have seen them.
"Everything around the Lateran reminds one of Constantine. St. JohnLateran has the site of a church he founded, and near it is theBaptistery where he was baptized. The font is green basalt, and thereare beautiful porphyry columns and lovely gold mosaics on a blue ground.
"Opposite, in the piazza, is an obelisk Constantine brought from theTemple of the Sun at Thebes, and set up in the Circus Maximus. Three orfour hundred years ago they found it in three pieces buried under ruins,and decided to place it here. Uncle Jim says there are more obeliskshere than in all the rest of the world, and people who study hieroglyphsfind Rome a better place than Egypt.
"Marion is good company, and often wishes to see just the same thingthat I do, and then sometimes he doesn't; and I must say he always seemsto suit himself. He knows a great deal. He has usually studied withprivate tutors and he has read everything. But he won't talk about hisfamily. I don't even know whether he has any brothers or sisters.
"He was splendid the other day when we went to the Capitoline Museum,from the minute we began to walk up the broad stairs toward the statueof Marcus Aurelius. He pointed out the places where Tiberius Gracchuswas slain, and not far away, though so long afterwards, Rienzi, too.
"Then he explained that though most of the buildings now on theCampodoglio were by Michelangelo, this had been a centre for publicoffices even under the first emperors. The Tabularium, where all oldrecords were kept, is under the palace of the Senators. We had not timefor it, but Marion had been there before, and he says it is almost theonly building now left of the time of the Republic. Then we walkedthrough the Capitoline Museum and I recognized many statues,--the DyingGladiator and Hawthorne's Marble Faun and the busts of the Emperors.Marion says nearly all have been identified from coins, and are truerthan the heads of philosophers and poets that we saw. Then there is thefamous mosaic picture of the doves that shows even the shadows, whichcame from Hadrian's villa, like so many things in marble and porphyry Ihave seen this week.
"There are many relics from the ancient graves, gold bracelets andother ornaments, and old inscriptions. They are not always easy to read,but here is one to amuse the boys that Marion translated for me. I can'tgive the exact words, but it was the epitaph of a boy eleven and a halfyears old who had worked himself to death in a competition to reciteGreek verses. After we had seen all we wished in the museums, Mariontook me through a narrow way, the Via Tarpeia, and past the GermanEmbassy and then through a garden, where we paid an old lady a fee, andthen, but of course you have guessed it, we were standing on the famousTarpeian Rock. We looked down from the rock into a rather poor andcommonplace street, and I tried to imagine what it was like in the old,old times when this was the edge of Rome, and Tarpeia was killed therefor betraying the city to the invaders.
"Without Marion I never could have found the Rock, and I don't believeUncle Jim and Aunt Caroline would have taken the trouble to go there."