Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 31, May, 1860
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Various >> Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 31, May, 1860
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"Ma per altro son uomo ingegnoso,
Non possiedo, ma sono padrone;
Vendo l' acqua con spirto e limone
Finche dura d' estate il calor.
"Ho an capello di paglia,--ma bello!
Un zinale di sopra fino;
Chi mi osserva nel mio tavolino,
Gli vien sete, se sete non ha.
"Spaccio spirti, siroppi, acquavite
Fo 'ranciate di nuova invenzione;
Voi vedete quante persone
Chiedon acqua,--e rispondo,--Son qua!"
The _limonaro_ is the exponent, the algebraic power, of the Church
processions which abound this month; and he is as faithful to them as
Boswell to Johnson;--wherever they appear, he is there to console and
refresh. Nor is his office a sinecure now; and let us hope that he has
his small profits, as well as the Church,--though they spell theirs
differently.
The great procession of the year takes place this month on Corpus
Domini, and is well worth seeing, as being the very finest and most
characteristic of all the Church festivals. It was instituted in honor
of the famous miracle at Bolsena, when the wafer dripped blood, and is,
therefore, in commemoration of one of the cardinal doctrines of the
Roman Church, Transubstantiation, and one of its most theological
miracles. The Papal procession takes place in the morning, in the
piazza of Saint Peter's; and if you would be sure of it, you must be on
the spot as soon as eight o'clock at the latest. The whole circle of
the piazza itself is covered with an awning, festooned gayly with
garlands of box, under which the procession passes; and the ground is
covered with yellow sand, over which box and bay are strewn. The
celebration commences with morning mass in the basilica, and that over,
the procession issues from one door, and, making the whole circuit of
the piazza, returns into the church. First come the _Seminaristi_, or
scholars and attendants of the various hospitals and charity-schools,
such as San Michele and Santo Spirito,--all in white. Then follow the
brown-cowled, long-bearded Franciscans, the white Carmelites, and the
black Benedictines, bearing lighted candles and chanting hoarsely as
they go. You may see pass before you now all the members of these
different conventual orders that there are in Rome, and have an
admirable opportunity to study their physiognomies in mass. If you are
a convert to Romanism, you will perhaps find in their bald beads and
shaven crowns and bearded faces a noble expression of reverence and
humility; but, suffering as I do under the misfortune of being a
heretic, I could but remark on their heads an enormous development of
the two organs of reverence and firmness, and a singular deficiency in
the upper forehead, while there was an almost universal enlargement of
the lower jaw and of the base of the brain. Being, unfortunately, a
friend of Phrenology, as well as a heretic, I drew no very auspicious
augury from these developments; and looking into their faces, the
physiognomical traits were narrow-mindedness, bigotry, or cunning. The
Benedictine heads showed more intellect and will; the Franciscans more
dulness and good-nature.
But while I am criticizing them, they are passing by, and a picturesque
set of fellows they are. Much as I dislike the conventual creed, I
should be sorry to see the costume disappear. Directly on the heels of
their poverty come the three splendid triple crowns of the Pope,
glittering with gorgeous jewels, and borne in triumph on silken
embroidered cushions, and preceded by the court jeweller. After them
follow the chapters, canons, and choirs of the seven basilicas,
chanting in lofty altos and solid basses and clear ringing tenors from
their old Church books, each basilica bearing a typical tent of colored
stripes and a wooden campanile and a bell which is constantly rung.
Next come the canons of the churches and the _monsignori_, in splendid
dresses and rich capes of beautiful lace falling below their waists;
the bishops clad in cloth of silver with mitres on their heads; the
cardinals brilliant in gold embroidery and gleaming in the sun; and at
last the Pope himself, borne on a platform splendid with silver and
gold, with a rich canopy over his head. Beneath this he kneels, or
rather, seems to kneel; for, though his splendid draperies and train
are skilfully arranged so as to present this semblance, being drawn
behind him over two blocks which are so placed as to represent his
heels, yet in fact he is seated on a sunken bench or chair, as any
careful eye can plainly see. However, kneeling or sitting, just as you
will, there he is, before an altar, holding up the _ostia_, which is
the _corpus Domini_, "the body of God," and surrounded by officers of
the Swiss guards in glittering armor, chamberlains in their beautiful
black and Spanish dresses with ruffs and swords, attendants in scarlet
and purple costumes, and the _guardia nobile_ in their red dress
uniforms. Nothing could be more striking than this group. It is the
very type of the Church,--pompous, rich, splendid, imposing. After them
follow the dragoons mounted,--first a company on black horses, then
another on bays, and then a third on grays; foot-soldiers with flashing
bayonets bring up the rear, and the procession is over. As the last
soldiers enter the church, there is a stir among the gilt equipages of
the cardinals which line one side of the piazza,--the horses toss their
scarlet plumes, the liveried servants sway as the carriages lumber on,
and you may spend a half-hour hunting out your own humble vehicle, if
you have one, or throng homeward on foot with the crowd through the
Borgo and over the bridge of Sant' Angelo.
This grand procession strikes the note of all the others, and in the
afternoon each parish brings out its banners, arrays itself in its
choicest dresses, and with pomp and music bears the _ostia_ through the
streets, the crowd kneeling before it, and the priests chanting. During
the next _ottava_ or eight days, all the processions take place in
honor of this festival; and when the week has passed, everything ends
with the Papal procession in Saint Peter's piazza, when, without music,
and with uncovered heads, the Pope, cardinals, _monsignori_, canons,
and the rest of the priests and officials, make the round of the
piazza, bearing great Church banners.
One of the most striking of their celebrations took place this year at
the church of San Rocco in the Ripetta, when the church was made
splendid with lighted candles and gold bands, and a preacher held forth
to a crowded audience in the afternoon. At Ave Maria there was a great
procession, with banners, music, and torches, and all the evening the
people sauntered to and fro in crowds before the church, where a
platform was erected and draped with old tapestries, from which a band
played constantly. Do not believe, my dear Presbyterian friend, that
these spectacles fail deeply to affect the common mind. So long as
human nature remains the same, this splendor and pomp of processions,
these lighted torches and ornamented churches, this triumphant music
and glad holiday of religion will attract more than your plain
conventicles, your ugly meeting-houses, and your compromise with the
bass-viol. For my own part, I do not believe that music and painting
and all the other arts really belong to the Devil, or that God gave him
joy and beauty to deceive with, and kept only the ugly, sour, and sad
for himself. We are always better when we are happy; and we are about
as sure of being good when we are happy, as of being happy when we are
good. Cheerfulness and happiness are, in my humble opinion, duties and
habits to be cultivated; but, if you don't think so, I certainly would
not deny you the privilege of being wretched: don't let us quarrel
about it.
Rather let us turn to the Artists' Festival, which takes place in this
month, and is one of the great attractions of the season. Formerly,
this festival took place at Cerbara, an ancient Etruscan town on the
Campagna, of which only certain subterranean caves remain. But during
the revolutionary days which followed the disasters of 1848, it was
suspended for two or three years by the interdict of the Papal
government, and when it was again instituted, the place of meeting was
changed to Fidenae, the site of another Etruscan town, with similar
subterranean excavations, which were made the head-quarters of the
festival. But the new railway to Bologna having been laid out directly
over this ground, the artists have been again driven away, and this
year the _festa_ was held, for the first time, in the grove of Egeria,
one of the most beautiful spots on the whole Campagna,--and here it is
to be hoped it will have an abiding rest.
This festival was instituted by the German artists, and, though the
artists of all nations now join in it, the Germans still remain its
special patrons and directors. Early in the morning, the artists
rendezvous at an appointed _osteria_ outside the walls, dressed in
every sort of grotesque and ludicrous costume which can be imagined.
All the old dresses which can be rummaged out of the studios or
theatres, or pieced together from masking wardrobes, are now in
requisition. Indians and Chinese, ancient warriors and mediaeval
heroes, militia-men and Punches, generals in top-boots and pigtails,
doctors in gigantic wigs and small-clothes, Falstaffs and justices
"with fair round belly with good capon lined," magnificent foolscaps,
wooden swords with terrible inscriptions, gigantic chapeaus with plumes
made of vegetables, in a word, every imaginable absurdity is to be
seen. Arrived at the place of rendezvous, they all breakfast, and then
the line of march is arranged. A great wooden cart, adorned with quaint
devices, garlanded with laurel and bay, bears the president and
committee. This is drawn by great white oxen, who are decorated with
wreaths and flowers and gay trappings, and from it floats the noble
banner of Cerbara or Fidenae. After this follows a strange and motley
train,--some mounted on donkeys, some on horses, and some afoot,--and
the line of march is taken up for the grove of Egeria. What mad jests
and wild fun now take place it is impossible to describe; suffice it to
say, that all are right glad of a little rest when they reach their
destination.
Now begin to stream out from the city hundreds of carriages,--for all
the world will be abroad to-day to see,--and soon the green slopes are
swarming with gay crowds. Some bring with them a hamper of provisions
and wine, and, spreading them on the grass, lunch and dine when and
where they will; but those who would dine with the artists must have
the order of the _mezzo baiocco_ hanging to their buttonhole, which is
distributed previously in Rome to all the artists who purchase tickets.
Some few there are who also bear upon their breasts the nobler medal of
_troppo merito_, gained on previous days, and those are looked upon
with due reverence.
But before dinner or lunch there is a high ceremony to take place,--the
great feature of the day. It is the mock-heroic play. This year it was
the meeting of Numa with the nymph Egeria at the grotto; and thither
went the festive procession; and the priest, befilletted and draped in
white, burned upon the altar as a sacrifice a great toy sheep, whose
offence "smelt to heaven"; and then from the niches suddenly appeared
Numa, a gallant youth in spectacles, and Egeria, a Spanish artist with
white dress and fillet, who made vows over the smoking sheep, and then
were escorted back to the sacred grove with festal music by a joyous,
turbulent crowd.
Last year, however, at Fidenae, it was better. We had a travesty of the
taking of Troy, which was eminently ludicrous, and which deserves a
better description than I can give. Troy was a space inclosed within
paper barriers, about breast-high, painted "to present a wall," and
within these were the Trojans, clad in red, and all wearing gigantic
paper helmets. There was old Priam, in spectacles, with his crown and
robes,--Laocooen, in white, with a white wool beard and wig,--Ulysses,
in a long, yellow beard and mantle,--and Aeneas, with a bald head, in a
blue, long-tailed coat, and tall dickey, looking like the traditional
Englishman in the circus who comes to hire the horse. The Grecians were
encamped at a short distance. All had round, basket-work shields,--some
with their names painted on them in great letters, and some with an odd
device, such as a cat or pig. There were Ulysses, Agamemnon, Ajax,
Nestor, Patroclus, Diomedes, Achilles, "all honorable men." The drama
commenced with the issuing of Paris and Helen from the walls of
Troy,--he in a tall, black French hat, girdled with a gilt crown, and
she in a white dress, with a great wig hanging round her face in a
profusion of carrotty curls. Queer figures enough they were, as they
stepped along together, caricaturing love in a pantomime, he making
terrible demonstrations of his ardent passion, and she finally falling
on his neck in rapture. This over, they seated themselves near by two
large pasteboard rocks, he sitting on his shield and taking out his
flute to play to her, while she brought forth her knitting and ogled
him as he played. While they were thus engaged, came creeping up with
the stage stride of a double step, and dragging one foot behind him,
Menelaus, whom Thersites had, meantime, been taunting, by pointing at
him two great ox-horns. He walked all round the lovers, pantomiming
rage and jealousy in the accredited ballet style, and then, suddenly
approaching, crushed poor Paris's great black hat down over his eyes.
Both, very much frightened, then took to their heels and rushed into
the city, while Menelaus, after shaking Paris's shield, in defiance, at
the walls, retired to the Grecian camp. Then came the preparations for
battle. The Trojans leaned over their paper battlements, with their
fingers to their noses, twiddling them in scorn, while the Greeks shook
their fists back at them. The battle now commenced on the
"ringing-plains of Troy," and was eminently absurd. Paris, in hat and
pantaloons, (_a la mode de Paris_,) soon showed the white feather, and
incontinently fled. Everybody hit nowhere, fiercely striking the ground
or the shields, and always carefully avoiding, as on the stage, to hit
in the right place. At last, however, Patroclus was killed, whereupon
the battle was suspended, and a grand _tableau_ of surprise and horror
took place, from which at last they recovered, and the Greeks prepared
to carry him off on their shoulders. Then terrible to behold was the
grief of Achilles. Homer himself would have wept to see him. He flung
himself on the body, and shrieked, and tore his hair, and violently
shook the corpse, which, under such demonstrations, now and then kicked
up. Finally, he rises and challenges Hector to single combat, and out
comes the valiant Trojan, and a duel ensues with wooden axes. Such
blows and counter blows were never seen, only they never hit, but often
whirled the warrior who dealt them completely round; they tumbled over
their own blows, panted with feigned rage, lost their robes and great
pasteboard helmets, and were even more absurd than Richmond and Richard
ever were on the country boards at a fifth-rate theatre. But Hector is
at last slain and borne away, and a ludicrous lay figure is laid out to
represent him, with bunged-up eyes and a general flabbiness of body and
want of features, charming to behold. On their necks the Trojans bear
him to their walls, and with a sudden jerk pitch him over them head
first, and he tumbles, in a heap, into the city. Then Ulysses harangues
the Greeks. He has brought out a _quarteruola_ barrel of wine, which,
with most expressive pantomime, he shows to be the wooden horse that
must be carried into Troy. His proposition is joyfully accepted, and,
accompanied by all, he rolls the cask up to the walls, and, flourishing
a tin cup in one hand, invites the Trojans to partake. At first there
is confusion in the city, and fingers are twiddled over the walls, but
after a time all go out and drink, and become ludicrously drunk, and
stagger about, embracing each other in the most maudlin style. Even
Helen herself comes out, gets tipsy with the rest, and dances about
like the most disreputable of Maenades. A great scena, however, takes
place as they are about to drink. Laocooen, got up in white wool,
appears, and violently endeavors to dissuade them, but in vain. In the
midst of his harangue, a long string of blown up sausage-skins is
dragged in for the serpent, and suddenly cast about his neck. His sons
and he then form a group, the sausage-snake is twined about them,--only
the old story is reversed, and he bites the serpent instead of the
serpent biting him,--and all die in agony, travestying the ancient
group.
All, being now drunk, go in, and Ulysses with them. A quantity of straw
is kindled, the smoke rises, the Greeks approach and dash in the paper
walls with clubs, and all is confusion. Then Aeneas, in his blue
long-tailed circus-coat, broad white hat, and tall shirt-collar,
carries off old Anchises on his shoulders with a cigar in his mouth,
and bears him to a painted section of a vessel, which is rocked to and
fro by hand, as if violently agitated by the waves. Aeneas and Anchises
enter the boat, or rather stand behind it so as to conceal their legs,
and off it sets, rocked to and fro constantly,--Aeolus and Tramontana
following behind, with bellows to blow up a wind, and Fair Weather,
with his name written on big back, accompanying them. The violent
motion, however, soon makes Aeneas sick, and as he leans over the side
in a helpless and melancholy manner, and almost gives up the ghost, as
well as more material things, the crowd burst into laughter. However,
at last they reach two painted rocks, and found Latium, and a general
rejoicing takes place.--The donkey who was to have ended all by
dragging the body of Hector round the walls came too late, and this
part of the programme did not take place.
So much of the entertainment over, preparations are made for dinner. In
the grove of Egeria the plates are spread in circles, while all the
company sing part-songs and dance. At last all is ready, the signal is
given, and the feast takes place after the most rustic manner. Great
barrels of wine covered with green branches stand at one side, from
which flagons are filled and passed round, and the good appetites soon
make direful gaps in the beef and mighty plates of lettuce. After this,
and a little sauntering about for digestion's sake, come the afternoon
sports. And there are donkey races, and tilting at a ring, and
foot-races, and running in sacks. Nothing can be more picturesque than
the scene, with its motley masqueraders, its crowds of spectators
seated along the slopes, its little tents here and there, its races in
the valley, and, above all, the glorious mountains looking down from
the distance. Not till the golden light slopes over the Campagna,
gilding the skeletons of aqueducts, and drawing a delicate veil of
beauty over the mountains, can we tear ourselves away, and rattle back
in our carriage to Rome.
The wealthy Roman families, who have villas in the immediate vicinity
of Rome, now leave the city to spend a month in them and breathe the
fresh air of spring. Many and many a tradesman who is well to do in the
world has a little _vigna_ outside the gates, where he raises
vegetables and grapes and other fruits; and every _festa_-day you will
be sure to find him and his family out in his little _villetta_,
wandering about the grounds or sitting beneath his arbors, smoking and
chatting with his children around him. His friends who have no villas
of their own here visit him, and often there is a considerable company
thus collected, who, if one may judge from their cheerful countenances
and much laughter, enjoy themselves mightily. Knock at any of these
villa-gates, and, if you happen to have the acquaintance of the owner,
or are evidently a stranger of respectability, you will be received
with much hospitality, invited to partake of the fruit and wine, and
overwhelmed with thanks for your _gentilezza_ when you take your leave;
for the Italians are a most good-natured and social people, and nothing
pleases them better than a stranger who breaks the common round of
topics by accounts of his own land. Everything new is to them
wonderful, just as it is to a child. They are credulous of everything
you tell them about America, which is to them in some measure what it
was to the English in the days of Raleigh, Drake, and Hawkins, and say
"_Per Bacco!_" to every new statement. And they are so magnificently
ignorant, that you have _carte blanche_ for your stories. Never did I
know any one staggered by anything I chose to say, but once. I was
walking with my respectable old _padrone_, Nisi, about his little
garden one day, when an ambition to know something about America
inflamed his breast.
"Are there any mountains?" he asked.
I told him "Yes," and, with a chuckle of delight, he cried,--
"_Per Bacco!_ And have you any cities?"
"Yes, a few little ones,"--for I thought I would sing small, contrary
to the general "'Ercles vein" of my countrymen. He was evidently
pleased that they were small, and, swelling with natural pride, said,--
"Large as Rome, of course, they could not be"; then, after a moment, he
added, interrogatively, "And rivers, too,--have you any rivers?"
"A few," I answered.
"But not as large as our Tiber," he replied,--feeling assured, that, if
the cities were smaller than Rome, as a necessary consequence, the
rivers that flowed by them must be in the same category.
The bait now offered was too tempting. I measured my respectable and
somewhat obese friend carefully with my eye, for a moment, and then
hurled this terrible fact at him:--
"We have some rivers three thousand miles long."
The effect was awful. He stood and stared at me, as if petrified, for a
moment. Then the blood rushed into his face, and, turning on his heel,
he took off his hat, said suddenly, "_Buona sera_," and carried my fact
and his opinions together up into his private room. I am afraid that
Don Pietro decided, on consideration, that I had been taking
unwarrantable liberties with him, and exceeding all proper bounds, in
my attempt to impose on his good-nature. From that time forward he
asked me no more questions about America.
And here, by the way, I am reminded of an incident, which, though not
exactly pertinent, may find here a parenthetical place, merely as
illustrating some points of Italian character. One fact and two names
relating to America they know universally,--Columbus and his discovery
of America, and Washington.
"_Si, Signore_," said a respectable person some time since, as he was
driving me to see a carriage which he wished to sell me, and therefore
desired to be particularly polite to me and my nation,--"a great man,
your Vashintoni! but I was sorry to hear, the other day, that his
father had died in London."
"His father dead, and in London?" I stammered, completely confounded at
this extraordinary news, and fearing lest I had been too stupid in
misunderstanding him.
"Yes," he said, "it is too true that his father Vellintoni is dead. I
read it in the _Diario di Roma_."
But better than this was the ingenious argument of a _Frate_, whom I
met on board a steamer in going from Leghorn to Genoa, and who, having
pumped out the fact that I was an American, immediately began to
"improve" it in a discourse on Columbus. So he informed me that
Columbus was an Italian, and that he had discovered America, and was a
remarkable man; to all of which I readily assented, as being true, if
not new. But now a severe abstract question began to tax my friend's
powers. He said, "But how could he ever have imagined that the
continent of America was there? That's the question. It is
extraordinary indeed!" And so he sat cogitating, and saying, at
intervals, "_Curioso! Straordinario!_" At last "a light broke in upon
his brain." Some little bird whispered the secret. His face lightened,
and, looking at me, he said, "Perhaps he may have read that it was
there in some old book, and so went to see if it were or no." Vainly I
endeavored to show him that this view would deprive Columbus of his
greatest distinction. He answered invariably, "But without having read
it, how could he ever have known it?"--thus putting the earth upon the
tortoise and leaving the tortoise to account for his own support.
Imagine that I have told you these stories sitting under the vine and
fig-tree of some _villetta_, while Angiolina has gone to call the
_padrone_, who will only be too glad to see you. But, _ecco!_ at last
our _padrone_ comes. No, it is not the _padrone_, it is the
_vignarualo_, who takes care of his grapes and garden, and who
recognizes us as friends of the _padrone_, and tells us that we are
ourselves _padroni_ of the whole place, and offers us all sorts of
fruits.
One old custom, which existed in Rome some fifteen years ago, has now
passed away with other good old things. It was the celebration of the
_Fravolata_ or Strawberry-Feast, when men in gala-dress at the height
of the strawberry-season went in procession through the streets,
carrying on their heads enormous wooden platters heaped with this
delicious fruit, accompanied by girls in costume, who, beating their
_tamburelli_, danced along at their sides and sung the praises of the
strawberry. After threading the streets of the city, they passed
singing out of the gates, and at different places on the Campagna spent
the day in festive sports and had an out-door dinner and dance.
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