Part 5

Of course, railroad stations cannot fail to be modern, customs officials are unpleasantly up-to-date in their ways, and it seems strangely incongruous to find electric trams whirling around St. Peter's, the Coliseum, and the Forum; but having once accepted these innovations, we were pleased to find antiquity raising its hoary head at every turn. Near the bustling railroad station are the great ruins of the Baths of Diocletian, and driving from thence to the Via Sistina we passed through a most interesting street named after the four fountains that adorn it. The Via Sistina, where we are lodged, joins the Via Gregoriana a few steps from our pension, and at the angle of meeting is a quaint, picturesque house where the Zuccari, a family of artists, once lived. A little further on is the ancient Church of Trinità de' Monti, where one may hear the nuns sing their vesper hymns on Sunday afternoons, and beyond the church the wide pergola of ilex-trees, twisted and bent and clipped in a fashion known only to Italian gardeners. This broad pergola shades the sunny street leading to the Pincio, or "Hill of Gardens," as the ancients called it. Here we found our way soon after our arrival, and sitting upon the stone wall above the Piazza del Popolo we basked in the warm sunshine and read our home letters, with Rome spread before us. St. Peter's, with the long line of the Vatican buildings, a city in themselves, lies to the right, and quite near on the Tiber is the Castle of St. Angelo, Hadrian's tomb, with an angel on the summit sheathing his bloody sword, while on the western horizon, as far as the eye can reach, is the Janiculum Hill. We could faintly trace upon its crest the outline of the equestrian statue of Garibaldi, which dominates all Rome, as indeed it should. We strolled back through the blooming shrubbery and the pergola to the Square of Trinità de' Monti, and down those Spanish Steps of which we have read so much--great, wide steps, so many of them that we have not the courage to count them, and of marble that is neither white nor gray but of a warm yellow tone with a dash of pink in it, reminding us of the soft shades of the gates of the Alhambra. To the left as one goes down the steps is a square yellow house, where John Keats passed the last suffering weeks of his life. This house was selected for Keats by Dr. Clark because it was near his own. A square tablet marks the building as the one from which this rare spirit "outsoared the shadow of our night."

At the foot of the Spanish Steps are the vendors of flowers. Men and women are always to be found here selling the most exquisite roses, lilies, daffodils, frisias, anemones, giant mignonette of the most fragrant kind, and long sprays of peach and almond blossoms. Fancy, if you can, the steps, above them the Piazza of Santa Trinità de' Monti, with its marble balustrades, and the Piazza di Spagna below, with its sparkling fountain, all bathed in the most brilliant sunshine, and you will believe that we are indeed well placed, living near so much that is beautiful.

March 18th.

Although there were a thousand things to be seen in Rome, we turned our backs upon them all and went to Tivoli yesterday, because a pleasant party was going from here and the day was fine. We drove through the newly built Veneto quarter, passing Queen Margherita's palace, with its handsome broad façade, which is directly on the street. The great gardens are behind, surrounded by high walls overtopped by tall camellia-trees full of their red and white blossoms. We passed through the Porta San Lorenzo, beyond which is the station for Tivoli. The road passes near the Church of San Lorenzo, which is said to be a perfect example of the basilica, as it rises in "its gray reverend dignity" against the background of the Campagna and the blue mountains of Tivoli. Inside of this church are the tombs of Pius IX. and several other popes, and frescoes and mosaics, ancient and modern, of great richness.

Our road lay through a desolate-looking country, but for that reason none the less dear to the heart of the antiquarian. For near the river Anio and the Tuzia, both of which we crossed, our guide told us that Hannibal had encamped; a little way beyond was the hallowed grove of the Muses; and to the ruined baths of the Aquæ Albulæ the captive queen of Palmyra came from her villa near by, to bathe in the milk-white water. The steam tram stopped for us most accommodatingly at the sulphur springs, and allowed us time to walk around and see all that is left of this ancient resort. Here the emperors and tribunes of Rome came to wash away their sins, just as our politicians go to Saratoga and the Southern springs for the same purpose. The water, which is always spoken of as milk-white, seemed to us to have a decidedly blue shade, an exquisite light blue. The deposit left by the sulphur or sulphuretted hydrogen has hardened in the beds of the streams and pools into the most curious and grotesque shapes. These deposits we afterwards found used at the Villa d'Este and elsewhere for the decorations of the fountains.

At Tivoli hacks were awaiting us, in which we drove to the Villa d'Este. This stately and imposing palace, with its spacious garden, was worthy to be the residence of one of the oldest and most distinguished princely houses of Italy. We entered the palace enclosure through the cloister of the Church of St. Francis, and saw in the long corridors and spacious apartments many beautiful frescoes by Zuccaro and Muziano. Some of these are considerably damaged by the dampness, but many still exhibit rare grace of design and richness of color. Beneath the villa is a broad terrace ending in a noble archway, through which one may look forth upon hillsides glorified by the blossoming almond, peach and Judas trees. From this terrace winding stairways lead to other terraces below, upon each one of which fountains send up jets of feathery spray that display their iridescent colors against the background of huge cypresses. It is all a dream of loveliness, and full of the indescribable atmosphere of old-world charm. We could imagine the poet Tasso, who was attached to the court of one of the Dukes of Ferrara, drawing inspiration from these classic groves, in whose leafy quiet the nightingale must surely sing. Here the beautiful young daughters of the house played in the sunshine of the too brief girlhood granted to old-time princesses.

We afterwards drove through the old town, and from a lower road had a good view of the temples and churches, and of the heights of Monte Catillo, its picturesque hillsides, and the cascades which seemed to bubble forth from every fissure and crevice in the rocks--so many waterfalls that one could not count them all.

The hotel where we stopped for luncheon is built upon a shelving rock on whose garden terrace we sat overlooking the valley. Above us, on another projection, was the little Temple of Vesta, the Sibyl, or what you will--it seems to make little difference what one calls this exquisite circular temple, as antiquarians do not agree about its name. It is, however, so graceful in form and so rich in coloring that, like the rose, it is equally lovely by whatever name it is called, especially as we saw it to-day, draped with clematis and ivy, crowning

"The green steep whence Anio leaps, In floods of snow-white foam."

After luncheon we made our excursion to Hadrian's Villa, or Villa Adriana, as they now call it, which is the chief object of interest at Tivoli and is worthy of something more than a superficial inspection. As you doubtless know, it is not a villa, or even a palace, like the Villa d'Este, but a military or university town. Here are quarters for the soldiers, dining-rooms for the officers and their men, temples, libraries, hospitals, baths, theatres, race-courses, gardens, and fountains. Most of the sculptures have been carried away from the beautiful Golden Court and the Hall of Philosophy, but exquisite bits of stone carving are still to be seen in the courts and baths, and mosaic pavements looking as bright and fresh as when trodden by the feet of Hadrian in A.D. 138.

As we passed through room after room, with their more or less fragmentary decorations, Angela reminded us of the story of the Western girl who, on her way to Tivoli, hoped that when she called at the villa the Hadrians would not be at home, as she had not put on her best hat. Zelphine and I thought that this "innocent abroad" must have been surprised to find that when the Hadrians left their villa they had taken away most of their furniture and ornaments with them. What queer specimens of our own countrymen we do meet _en voyage_! The question that we ask ourselves most frequently is, why did they come?

March 21st.

I have been wondering why I have not heard from Ludovico Baldini. We went to the bank on the Piazza di Spagna this morning, and found my Naples letter lying unopened. To-day I had decided to go to French, Lemon & Co., thinking I had made a mistake about the bank, when as we were walking along the Via Nazionale on our way to the Rospigliosi Palace, I saw a young man on the other side of the way take off his hat and wave it as he dashed across the street. Of course it was Ludovico, just returned from Florence, as bright and cordial as ever, but very indignant over not having had my letter forwarded to him.

I think you must have met young Mr. Baldini, of whom I speak so unceremoniously as Ludovico, as he was often at our common friends', the W.'s, last year. I met him first at Jamestown, in the summer, and he gave me so many valuable suggestions about Italian travel that I feel greatly indebted to him. He is young, not much over twenty-one, but in some respects seems older, and, being American on one side, he combines considerable practical ability with the Italian charm of manner which we all realize, even if we are not always happy in describing it.

We had intended to go somewhere this afternoon with Mrs. Robins and Bertha Linn, and when Ludovico suggested our driving out to the meet near the Tomb of Cæcilia Metella, we concluded that this was the thing of all others that we wished to do, more especially as this was the last meet of the season. We arrayed ourselves in our best, as all the smart people go to the meets here. Ludovico secured the most presentable hacks that he could find, and we set forth, following a gay procession of carriages along the street of tombs to a sporting scene; but for such incongruities as this, commend me to the sympathetic Italian!

The meet was worth seeing--fine horses, good riding, life, motion, and color. There were many handsome, well-dressed women in the carriages and walking about; all this gayety brought out in strong relief by the sombre background of the old aqueduct and the great circular tomb of the beloved wife of Crassus.

As the carriages were crowded together, we left ours, and attempted to walk over the field, as many persons were doing. The horses and dogs turned suddenly in our direction, and Mrs. Robins, in trying to get out of their way, slipped, fell, and would have been trampled by one of the horses had not his rider been a most expert horseman. Ludovico was in a rage such as these hot-blooded Latins alone are capable of, and was ready to call out the young horseman, who had done all that man could do to prevent an accident, dismounting at once and most courteously apologizing. "It is entirely our fault for being on foot where horses and dogs had the right of way," I said to the _cavaliere_, who bowed with the gravity of a Don Quixote, evidently quite agreeing with me. Ludovico, somewhat appeased, asked me to allow him to present the gentleman, who was an acquaintance of his, and this ceremony being accomplished satisfactorily they both handed us to our carriages in fine style. As Mrs. Robins fortunately was not hurt, we were all able to enjoy the spirited scene from our coign of vantage. The dogs broke covert over on the Campagna, and then the rush and scamper of the gay cavalcade across the plain was most exciting, horsemen and hounds in full cry.

As it was still early in the afternoon, we decided to drive to the Janiculum Hill to see the fine equestrian statue of Garibaldi and the magnificent view from what seems here quite a height, because it rises abruptly from the plain, but is really less than three hundred feet. The air was perfectly clear, and we could literally behold all Rome, old and new, spread out before us. Between the hill and the Tiber lies that large quarter known as Trastevere, where are some of the most interesting churches, as Santa Maria and Santa Cecilia. Here beautiful villas once stood, but Trastevere is now almost exclusively inhabited by the working classes. A fine and handsome race, differing in dialect from the citizens of other quarters of Rome, the Trasteverians seem to have some right to the distinction which they claim of being the direct descendants of the ancient Romans.

On our return from the Janiculum we stopped at St. Peter's in Montorio, which is on one of the slopes of the Janiculum. Although the crowning glory of this church, Raphael's Transfiguration, has been taken from the high altar and carried to the Vatican, a few good pictures still remain. What we desired to see the most, though, was the little temple in the court said to mark the spot where the cross of St. Peter stood. The chapel contains a statue of the saint, and below, down some steps, is a grewsome place where he is said to have been crucified in a manner so horrible that I really cannot undertake to describe it to you. The impression made upon one by this spot is somewhat the less thrilling because several other places are shown as the scene of the martyrdom of this great apostle. The woman who opened the temple for us scratched up some of the earth and gave it to us with great solemnity. Angela's face was a study as she received her portion. She is not, as you may believe, much of a relic-hunter.

VI

A POET'S CORNER

VIA SISTINA, ROME, March 22d.

Your letter in answer to mine written from San Remo reached me to-day. It really seems a year since I wrote you that letter, instead of one month. So many impressions have come crowding one upon another since then that I cannot quite recall what I said of a personal nature. The meeting with Genevra brought back the old familiar associations so vividly that we sometimes forgot all that had happened since we had parted, and lived over our early, happy days. If you read into my letter more than was meant, it is because some of the glamour of that time caused will-o'-the-wisps to mislead you. No, "gang your ain gait, Allan," as your mother's old Scotch maid used to say. You have a great future before you in your profession, and I--it seems to me sometimes that I have only a past, and a present which I live day by day, with no plans for the years to come. It is so difficult to readjust one's life to new standards, and those who stake much lose heavily. We both loved Headley too well to say one harsh word about him. I could not talk to you thus freely were it not so; indeed, I never could _speak_ to you at all about Headley--writing is easier, across the great expanse of waters. Now that I have broken the silence, let me say to you, best of friends, that I have in this sunny land and among these changing scenes found content, which may in time reach the measure of happiness. Do not disturb this peace, I beg of you, but be satisfied with our good old friendship, which is so safe and sane.

I shall really be afraid to tell you of any of our contretemps, you take them so seriously, and yet you wish to know of all our wanderings and of just how certain things impress us. I had forgotten about that absurd homesickness in Genoa, until you spoke of it. It was an acute attack, I assure you, and, like the proverbial grief of the widower, violent while it lasted, but soon well over and done with. Now we wonder how any one could possibly be homesick in this Italy which we love so much, above all in Rome, which seems each day more and more the mother of us all. Zelphine and Angela will tell you that Margaret is the gayest of the party. You know that I never would be a kill-joy, and here there is so much to interest one on all sides.

So you are glad that there is one good English name in the party, and are pleased to like the sound of my homespun baptismal? Angela is of the same mind; she says that my sensible "Margaret" strikes a happy balance between Zelphine's romantic name, which she feels it her duty to live up to, and her own, equally fanciful, which she takes pleasure in defying. By way of adapting herself gracefully to the situation, Angela has fallen into the habit of calling Zelphine "Z." This is all very well, but I am thankful that she does not insist upon being called "A.," as the constant turning from A. to Z. would be unpleasantly suggestive of algebraic formulæ, which were the bane of my school-days.

We laugh at Zelphine and chaff her continually about her flights of fancy; but no person could travel with her without realizing what a pleasure it is to be with a woman whose mind is so stored with the poetry and history of these old cities, one who enters so heart and soul into every interesting association. I said something of this to Angela one morning as we turned from the Via Condotti into the Corso, feeling that she might not appreciate all her privileges.

"Zelphine is," I said, "steeped in the lore of the past."

"Yes, up to the neck!" replied Angela, with emphasis. "I feel that I am now enjoying that liberal education that I have heard about all my life."

"The education is not liberal in including your expressions," I said, with an attempt at severity.

"Don't you understand, Margaret? Must I always explain?" said Angela, lifting her innocent blue eyes to mine. "I mean that Z. swims in learning, and one must be in up to one's neck to swim comfortably!"

Angela is quite hopeless, and by way of punishing her I stopped to buy her some of the delicious red roses that make me think of June days at home, especially of the roses in your mother's garden, which were always the reddest. Zelphine having stepped on in advance of us to attend to a commission at the cleaner's, where they "gar auld claes look amaist as weel's the new," we sauntered on along what one of your favorite writers describes so enthusiastically as "that world-famous avenue, the Corso."

"Do look at her!" exclaimed Angela, as we passed the Via Convertite and saw Zelphine standing at the corner of the Via San Claudio, gazing spellbound at the windows of a house on the other side of the street. "She's quite happy; time and place are nothing to her--she has discovered the Shelley tablet on that house. I saw it several days ago, but I thought I'd let Z. find it for herself. She'll never rest content till she sees the room in which Shelley wrote 'The Cenci' and 'Prometheus Unbound.' It is probably not worth seeing when you get into it, and may not be the room at all; but see it Z. will, or die in the attempt. I don't believe in all these wonderful tales that we hear. You only half believe in them yourself, Margaret, so I dare to talk to you; Z. swallows them whole, and so does Ludovico, and that is what makes them such good friends."

"And is it your incredulity, my dear, that makes you and Ludovico such bitter enemies?"

Angela laughed her light, musical laugh.

"We do quarrel, you know; we had quite a battle last evening over the Catacombs. Ludovico says that I must see them; that it would be positively disgraceful for me to leave Rome without seeing the Catacombs of Calixtus, at least. You know that I don't care for such dismal places. Rome is so gay and bright on top, why should we burrow underneath after tombs and Christian martyrs, while the sun is shining upon the Pincio and there are no end of things to be seen above ground? There she goes, after the concierge!"

There was nothing for us to do but to follow Zelphine into the somewhat shabby house and upstairs into the poet's room. It was worth much to stand in the room where Shelley had once written, and to look from the windows from which he could see the varied, moving panorama of the busy Corso and the ancient Church of San Silvestro in Capite, in whose adjoining convent the beautiful Vittoria Colonna took refuge in her widowhood, and wrote her sonnets in memory of a beloved husband.

A curious commentary upon the power of the world over the Church is to be found in the fact that Pope Clement VII. forbade the abbess and nuns, "under pain of the greater excommunication," to permit this noble lady the usual solace of afflicted womanhood, the cloister and the veil. This picturesque old convent with its lovely cloisters is now used as a post office.

From Shelley's house we retraced our steps along the Corso and turned into the Piazza San Lorenzo, where is the little Church of San Lorenzo in Lucina, in which Browning's Pompilia was baptized and married, her "own particular place," where she wondered, as we did,

"what the marble lion meant, With half his body rushing from the wall, Eating the figure of a prostrate man."

Standing before the wonderful altar-piece of Guido Reni's Crucifixion, painted against a wild and stormy sky, we realized how the suffering face of the compassionate Christ must have risen again and again before the despairing eyes of the persecuted child-wife:

"the piece Of Master Guido Reni, Christ on Cross, Second to nought observable in Rome."

Other and more impressive associations with Shelley's life in Rome than the little room on the Corso we found this afternoon when we drove out to the Baths of Caracalla, which even now cover so large a space that they have been well named a city of pleasure. We climbed over the mountainous ruin and up the winding stairs, trying to find just such a perch as Shelley described in the preface to his "Prometheus Unbound."

Bald and naked are these walls to-day, but not unsightly, as they stand out against the blue of the Roman sky and the fresh green of the Campagna. They are denuded of the vines and flowers that adorned them when, as Shelley says, he wrote his poem "among the flowery glades and thickets of odoriferous blossoming trees which are extended, in ever-winding labyrinths, upon its immense platforms and dizzy arches suspended in the air."

Now as then Rome lies on one side, with her many domes and towers; on the other are the mountains, blue in the distance, and white beyond the blue, where the snow lingers late upon their peaks. Like another mountain stands out the dome of St. Peter's, which Ampère says is "the only one of the works of man that possesses something of the grandeur of the works of God."

Being in the mood for poetic associations, we drove around by the Porta San Paolo, just outside of which, enclosed by high walls and overshadowed by the great pyramidal Tomb of Caius Cestius, is the old Protestant Cemetery. An ideal Campo Santo is this lovely spot, of which Shelley wrote that "it might make one in love with death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place." We wandered over the grass and looked up at the sky through the trees, while Zelphine quoted the lines that fit the scene so well:

"Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread."