Kitabı oku: «The Continental Monthly , Vol. 2 No. 5, November 1862», sayfa 12

THE VIOLETS OF THE VILLA BORGHESE

 
'It is well to be off with the old love
Before you are on with the new:'
 

hummed James Caper, as he sauntered, one morning early, through the dewy grass of the Villa Borghese, with his uncle, Bill Browne, leisurely picking a little bouquet of violets—'dim, but sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, or Cytherea's breath.'—and pleasantly thinking of the pretty face of his last love, the blonde Rose, who was at that moment smiling on somebody else in Naples.

'There is nothing keeps a man out of mischief so well as the little portrait a pair of lovely eyes photographs on his heart; is there now, Uncle Bill?'

'No, Jim, you are 'bout right there: if you want to keep the devil out of your heart, you must keep an angel in it. If you can't find a permanent resident, why you must take up with transient customers. First and last, I've had the pictures of half the pretty girls in Saint Louis hanging up in my gallery: as one grows dim I take up another, and that's the way I preserve my youth. If it hadn't been for business, I should have been a married man long ago; and my advice to you, Jim, is to stop off being a bachelor the instant you are home again.'

'I think I shall, the instant I find one with the beauty of an Italian, the grace of a French girl, the truth and tenderness of a German, the health of an Englishwoman, and—'

'Draw it mild, my boy,' broke in Uncle Bill: 'here she comes!'

Caper and his uncle were standing, as the latter spoke, under the group of stone pines, from whose feet there was a lovely view of the Albanian snow-capped mountains, and they saw coming toward them two ladies. There was the freshness of the morning in their cheeks, and though one was older than the other, joy-bringing years had passed so kindly with her, that if Caper had not known she was the mother of the younger lady—they would have passed for sisters. When he first saw them, the latter was gathering a few violets; when she rose, he saw the face of all others he most longed to see.

He had first seen her the life of a gay party at Interlachen; then alone in Florence, with her mother for companion, patiently copying the Bella di Tiziano in the Pitti palace; then in Venice, one sparkling morning, as he stepped from his gondola on the marble steps of a church, he met her again: this time he had rendered himself of assistance to the mother and daughter, in procuring admittance for them to the church, which was closed to the public for repairs, and could only be seen by an especial permit, which Caper fortunately had obtained. They were grateful for his attention, and when, a few days afterward, he met them in company with other of his American friends, and received a formal introduction, the acquaintance proved one of the most delightful he had made in Europe, rendering his stay in Venice marked by the rose-colored light of a new love, warming each scene that passed before his dreamy gaze. But other cities, other faces: memory slept to awake again with renewed strength at the first flash of light from the eyes of Ida Buren, there, over the spring violets of the Villa Borghese.

The meeting between Mrs. Buren, her daughter, and Caper, was marked, on the part of the ladies, with that cordiality which the truly well bred show instinctively to those who merit it—to those who, brave and loyal, prove, by word and look, that theirs is the right to stand within the circle of true politeness and courtesy.

'And so,' Mrs. Buren concluded her greeting, 'we are here in Rome, picking violets with the dew on them, and waiting for the nightingales to sing before we leave for Naples.'

'And forget,' said Caper, among the violets of Pæstum, the poor flowers of the Borghese? I protest against it, and beg to add this little bouquet to yours, that their united perfume may cause you to remember them.'

'I accept them for you, mother,' spoke Ida; 'and that they may not be forgotten, I will make a sketch at once of that fountain under the ilex trees, and Mr. Caper in classic costume, making floral offerings to Bacchus—of violets.'

'And why not to Flora?'

'I have yet to learn that Flora has a shrine at—Monte Testaccio! where the Signore Caper, if report speaks true, often goes and worships.'

'That shrine is abandoned hereafter: where shall my new one be?'

'In the Piazza di Spagna, No.–,' said Mrs. Buren, smiling at Caper's mournful tone of voice. 'While the violets bloom we shall be there. Good morning!'

The ladies continued their walk, and although, as they turned away, Ida dropped a tiny bunch of violets, hidden among two leaves, Caper, when he picked it up, did not return it to her, but kept it many a day as a souvenir of his fair countrywoman.

'They are,' said Uncle Bill, slowly and solemnly, 'two of the finest specimens of Englishwomen I ever saw, upon me word, be gad!'

'They are,' said Caper, 'two of the handsomest Americans I ever met.'

'Americans?' asked Uncle Bill, emphatically.

'Americans!' answered Caper, triumphantly.

'Shut up your paint shop, James, my son, call in the auctioneer, stick up a bill 'To Let.' Let us return at once to the land of our birth. No such attractions exist in this turkey-trodden, maccaroni-eating, picture-peddling, stone-cutting, mass-singing land of donkeys. Let us go. Americans!'

'Yes, Americans—Bostonians,'

'Farewell, seventy-five niggers—good-by, my speculations in Lewsianny cotton planting—depart from behind me, sugar crops on Bayou Fooshe! I am of those who want a Mrs. Browne, a duplicate of the elderly lady who has just departed, at any price. James, my son, this morning shalt thou breakfast with me at Nazzari's; and if thou hast not a bully old breakfast, it's because the dimes ain't in me—and I know they are. Nothing short of cream de Boozy frappayed, paddy frog grass pie, fill it of beef, and myonhays of pullits, with all kinds of saucy sons and so forth, will do for us. We have been among angels—shall we not eat like the elect? Forward!'

During breakfast, Caper discoursed at length with his uncle of the two ladies they met in the villa.

Mrs. Buren, left a widow years since, with a large fortune, had educated her only child, Ida, systematically, solidly, and healthily. The child's mind, vine-like, clings for support to something already firm and established, that it may climb upward in a healthy, natural growth, avoiding the earth; so the daughter had found in her mother a guide toward the clear air where there is health and purity. Ida Buren, with clear brown eyes, high spirits, rosy cheeks, and full perfected form, at one glance revealed the attributes that Uncle Bill had claimed for her so quickly. With all the beauty of an Italian, she had her perceptions of color and harmony in the violets she gathered; the truth and tenderness of a German, to appreciate their sentiment; the health of an Englishwoman, to tramp through the dewy grass to pick them; the grace of a Frenchwoman, to accept them from Nature with a merci, madame!

Caper had now a lovely painting to hang up in his heart, one in unison with the purity and beauty of the violets of the Villa Borghese.

THE CARNIVAL

There is lightness and brightness, music, laughter, merry jests, masks, bouquets, flying flowers, and confetti around you; you are in the Corso, no longer the sober street of a solemn old city, but the brilliant scene of a pageant, rivalling your dreams of Fairy land, excelling them; for it is fresh, sparkling, real before your eyes. From windows and balconies wave in the wind all-colored tapestries, flutter red, white, and golden draperies; laugh out in festal garments gay revellers; fly through the golden sunlight showers of perfumed flowers; beam down on you glances from wild, loving eyes, sparkling with fun, gleaming with excitement, thrilling with witching life.

Hurrah for to-day! Fiori, fiori, ecco fiori! Baskets of flowers, bunches of flowers, bouquets of flowers, flowers natural and flowers artificial, flowers tied up and flowers loose. Confetti, confetti, ecco confetti! Sugar plums white, sugar plums blue, bullets and buckshot of lime water and flour. Whiz! down comes the Carnival shower: 'Bella, donzella, this bouquet for thee!' Up go the white camellias and blue violets: 'down comes a rosebud for me.' What wealth of loveliness and beauty in thousands of balconies and windows; what sheen of brilliance in the vivid colors of the varied costumes!

The Carnival has come!

Right and left fly flowers; and here and there dart in between wheels and under horses' legs, dirty, daring Roman boys, grasping the falling flowers or confetti. From a balcony, some wealthy forestiero ('Ugh! how rich they are!' grumbles the coachman) scatters baiocchi broadcast, and down in the dirt and mud roll and tumble the little ragamuffins, who never have muffins, and always have rags—and 'spang!' down comes a double handful of hard confetti on Caper's head, as he rides by in an open carriage. He bombards the window with a double handful of white buckshot; but a woman in full Albano costume, crimson and white, aims directly at him a beautiful bouquet. Not to be outdone, Caper throws her a still larger one, which she catches and keeps—never throwing him the one she aimed! He is sold! But 'whiz, whir!' right and left fly flowers and confetti; and—oh, joy unspeakable!—an Englishman's chimney-pot hat is knocked from his head by a strong bouquet; and we know

 
'There is a noun in Hebrew means 'I am,'
The English always use to govern d–n,'
 

and that he is using it severely, and don't see the fun, you know—of throwing things! Who cares? Avanti!

Caper had filled the carriage with loose flowers, small bouquets, a basket of confetti, legal and illegal size, for the Carnival. Edict strictly prohibited persons from throwing large-sized bouquets and confetti; consequently, everybody considered themselves compelled to disobey the command. Rocjean, who was in the carriage with Caper, delighted the Romans with his ingenuity in attaching bouquets to the end of a long fish pole, and thus gently engineering them to ladies in windows or balconies. The crowd in the Corso grows larger and larger—the scene in this long street resembles a theatre in open air, with decorations and actors, assisted by a large supply of infantry and cavalry soldiers to keep order and attend to the scenes. The prosaic shops are no longer shops, but opera boxes, filled with actors and actresses instead of spectators, wearing all varieties of costume; the Italian ones predominant, gay, bright, and beautifully adapted to rich, peach-like complexions. Why call them olive complexions? For all the olives ever seen are of the color of a sick green pumpkin, or a too, too ripe purple plum; and who has ever yet seen a beautiful Italian maiden of either of these morbid colors?

The windows and balconies of the Corso are opera boxes. 'Whiz!' The flying bouquets and white pills show plainly that the prime donne are making their positively first appearances for the season. Look at that French soldier in company with another, who is passing under a balcony, when a tiny bunch of flowers falls, or is thrown at him: he stoops to grasp it: too late, mon brave, a Roman boy is ahead of you: no use swearing; so he grasps his comrade by the arm, and points to the balcony, which is not more than six feet above his head.

'Mon Dieu, qu'elle est gentille!'

And there stands the beauty, a thorough soldier's girl; weighs her hundred and seventy pounds, has cheeks like new-cut beefsteaks, hair black as charcoal, eyes bright as fire, and an arm capable of cooking for a regiment. She is dressed in full Albanian costume, has the dew of the fields in her air, and oh, when she smiles, she shows such splendid teeth!—the contadine have them, and don't ruin them by continual eating! The soldier stops, 'Oh lord, she is neat!' He wants to return her flowery compliment with a similar one; but, Tu bleu! one can't buy bouquets on four sous a day income—even in Rome: so he looks around for a waif, and spies on the pavement something green; he gallantly throws it up, and with a smile and, wave of the hand like a Chevalier Bayard on a bender, he bids adieu to the fair maiden. He threw up half a head of lettuce.

'Ach mein Gott! wollen sie nur?' and in return for a double handful of confetti flung into a carriage full of German artists ahead of him, 'bang!' comes into Caper's vehicle a shower of lime pills and other stunners—not including the language—and he is in for it. A minute, and the whole Corso rains, hails, and pelts flowers and white pills; nothing else is visible: up there laugh down at them whole balconies, filled with delirious men and women, throwing on their devoted heads, American, French, German, rattling, tumbling, fistfuls of confetti and wild flowers:—even that half head of lettuce was among the things flying! English, French, Dutch, Spanish, Germans, Italians, Americans, and those wild northern bloods—all grit and game—the Russians, are down on them like a thousand of bricks. Hurrah! the carriages move on—they are safe. Hurrah for a new fight with fresh faces! Avanti!

Comes a carriage load of wild Rustians. Ivan, the mondjik, fresh from the Nevskoi Prospekt, now drives for the first time in the Corso—Dam na vodka, Sabakoutchelovek, thinks he. Yes, my sweet son of a dog, thou shalt have vodka to drink after all this scrimmage is over. So he holds in his horses with one hand, crowds down his fur hat with the other, so that his eyes will be safe; and then bravely faces the stinging shower of confetti his lord and master draws down on him. Up on the back seat of this carriage, all life and fire, stands the Russian prince, with headpiece of mail and red surtout, a Carnival Circassian, 'down on' the slow-plodding Italians, and throwing himself away with flowers and fun. Isn't he a picture? how his blue eyes gleam, how his long, wavy moustache curls with the play of features! how the flowers fly—how the rubles fly for them! Look at the other Russians—there are beards for you! beards grown where brandy freezes! but, they are thawed out now. Look at these men: hear their wild northern tongue, how it rolls out the sounds that frighten Italians back to sleepy sonnets and voluptuous songs. Hurrah, my Russians! look fate in the face. Your road is—onward!

'Ah, yes; and really, my dear'—here a handful of white pills and lime dust breaks the sentence—'really my dear, hadn't we better'—'bang!' comes a tough bouquet, and hits milady on that bonnet—'better go to the hotel?'

'Indeed, now,' milady continues, 'they don't respect persons, these low Italians. They haven't the faintest idea of dignity.'

These 'low Italians' were more than probably fellow countrymen and women of the speaker; but they may have been 'low' all the same in her social barometer, for they pitched and flung, hurled and threw all the missiles they could lay hands on into the carriage of their unmistakable compatriots, with hearty delight; since the gentleman, who was not gentle, sat upright as a church steeple, never moving a muscle, and looking angry and worried at being flung at; and the milady also sat a la mode de church steeple—throwing nothing but angry looks. They went to the hotel. Sorrow go with them!

Caper and Rocjean now began to throw desperately, for they had a large supply of flowers and confetti on hand, which they were anxious to dispose of suddenly—since in ten minutes the horses would run, and then the carriages must leave the Corso. It was the last day of Carnival, and to-morrow—sackcloth and ashes. How the masks crowd around them; how the beautiful faces, unmasked, are smiling! Look at them well, stamp them on your heart, for many and many one shall we see never again. Another Carnival will bring them again, like song birds in summer; but a long, long winter will be between, and we will be far, far away.

The Corso is cleared, the infantry half keeps the crowd within bounds, a charge of cavalry sweeps the street, and then come rattling, clattering, rushing on the bare-backed horses, urged on by cries, shouts, yells; and frightened thus to top speed, while the Dutch metal, tied to their sides increases their alarm—whir! they are past us, and—the bay horse is ahead.

Again the carriages are in the Corso; here and there a few bouquets are thrown, floral farewells to the merry season: then as dusk comes on, and red and golden behind San Angelo flames the funeral pyre of the sun, and through the blue night twinkles the evening star, see down the Corso a faint light gleaming. Another and another light shines from balcony and window, flashes from rolling carriage, and flames out from along the dusky walls, till, presto! you turn your head, and up the Corso, and down the Corso, there is one burst of trembling light, and ten thousand tapers are brightly gleaming, madly waving, brilliantly swaying to and fro.

Moccoli! ecco, moccoli!

Along roll carriages; high in air gleam tapers, upheld by those within; from every balcony and window shine out the swaying tapers. Hurrah! here, there, hand to hand are contests to put out these shining lights, and Senza moccoli! 'Out with the tapers!' rings forth in trumpet tones, in gay, laughing tones, in merry tones, the length of the whole glorious Corso.

Daring beauty, wild, lovely bacchante, with black, beaming eyes, tempt us not with that bright flame to destruction! Look at her, as she stands so proudly and erectly on the highest seat in the carriage, her arms thrown up, her wild eyes gleaming from under jet black, dishevelled locks, while the night breeze flutters in wavy folds the drapery of her classic dress. Senza moccoli! she sends the challenge ringing down through fifteen centuries. He braves all; the carriage is climbed, the taper is within his reach.

'To-morrow I leave!'

She flings the burning taper away from her.

'Then take this kiss!'

'Senza moccoli!' black, witching eyes—farewell!

'Boom!' rings out the closing bell; fast fades the light, 'Out with the tapers!' the shout swells up, up, up, then slowly dies, as die an organ's tones—and Carnival is ended.

A handful of beautiful flowers, found among gray, crumbling ruins; a few notes of wild, stirring music, suddenly heard, then quickly dying away in the lone watches of the night: these are the hours of the Roman Carnival.

 
'Played is the comedy, deserted now the scene.'
 

THE VERMILION MIRACLE

Miracles are no longer performed in Rome. As soon as the police are officially informed, they prevent their being worked even in the Campagna:—official information, however, always travels much faster when the spurs of heretical incredulity are applied—otherwise it lags; and the performances of miracle-mongers insure crowded houses, sometimes for years.

Among Caper's artist friends was a certain Blaise Monet, French by nature, Parisian by birth, artist or writer according to circumstances. Circumstances—that is to say, two thousand francs left him by a deceased relation—created him a temporary artist in Rome.

'When the money is gone,' said he, 'I shall endow some barber with my goat's hair brushes, and resume the stylus: the first have attractions—capillary—for me; the latter has the attraction—gravitation of francs—still more interesting—that is to say, more stylish.'

Blaise Monet with the May breezes fled to a small town on top of a high mountain, in order to enjoy them until autumn: with the rains of October he descended on Rome.

'How did you enjoy yourself up in that hawk's nest?' Caper asked him, when he first saw him after his return to the city.

'Like the king D'Yvétot. My house was a castle, my drink good wine, my food solid—the cheese a little too much so, and a little too much of it: no matter—the views made up for it. Gr-r-rand, magnificent, splendid—in fact, paradise for twenty baiocchi a day, all told.'

'And as for affairs of the heart?'

'My friend, mourn with me: that hole was—so to speak in regard to that matter—a monastery, without doors, windows, or holes; and a wall around it, so high, it shut out—hope! I wish you could have seen the camel who was my monastic jailer.'

'That is, when you say camel, you mean jackass?'

'Precisely! Well, my friend, his name was Father Cipriano; though why they call a man father who has no legal children, I can't conceive, though probably many of his flock do. He prejudiced the minds of the maidens against me, and made an attempt to injure my reputation among the young men and elders—in vain. The man who could paint a scorpion on the wall so naturally as even to delude Father Ciprian into beating it for ten minutes with that bundle of sticks they call a broom; the man who could win three races on a bare-backed horse, treat all hands to wine, and even bestow segars on a few of the elders; win a terno at the Timbola, and give it back to the poor of the town; catch hold of the rope and help pull by the horns, all over town, the ox, thus preparatorily made tender before it was slaughtered: such a man could not have the ill will of the men.

'Believe me, I did all my possible to touch the hearts of the maidens. I serenaded them, learning fearful rondinelle, so as to be popular; I gathered flowers for them; I volunteered to help them pick chestnuts and cut firewood; I helped to make fireworks and fire balloons for the festivals; I drew their portraits in charcoal on a white wall, along the main street; and when they passed, with copper water jars on their heads, filled with water from the fountain, they exclaimed:

''Ecco! that is Elisa, that is Maricuccia, that is Francesca.'

'But I threw my little favors away: there was a black cloud over all, in a long black robe, called Padre Cipriano; and their hearts were untouched.

'I made one good friend, a widow lady, the Signora Margarita Baccio: she was about thirty-three years of age, and was mourning for a second husband—who did not come; the first one having departed for Cielo a few months past, as she told me. The widow having a small farm to hoe and dig, and about twelve miles to walk daily, I had but limited opportunities to study her character; but I believe, if I had, I should not have discovered much, since she had very little: she was deplorably ignorant, and excessively superstitious—but good natured and hopeful—looking out for husband No. 2. She it was that informed me that Padre Cipriano had set the faces of the maidens against me, and for this I determined to be revenged.

'A short time before I left the town, my oil colors were about used up. I had made nearly a hundred sketches, and not caring to send to Rome for more paints, I used my time making pencil sketches. Among the tubes of oil colors left, of course there was the vermilion, that will outlast for a landscape painter all others, I managed to paint a jackass's head for the landlord of the inn where I boarded, with my refuse colors:—after all were gone, there still remained the vermilion. One day, out in the fields sketching an old tower, and watching the pretty little lizards darting in and out the old ruins, an idea struck me. The next day I commenced my plan.

'I caught about fifty lizards, and painted a small vermilion cross on the head of each one, using severe drying oil and turpentine, in order to insure their not being rubbed off.

'The next dark night, when Padre Cipriano was returning from an excursion, he saw an apparition: phosphorus eyes, from the apothecary; a pair of horns, from the butcher; a tall form, made from reeds, held up by Blaise Monet, and covered with his long cloak, made in the Rue Cadet—strode before him with these words:

''I am the shade of Saint Inanimus, boiled to death by Roman legions, for the sake of my religion—in oil. My bones long since have mouldered in the dust, but, where they lie, the little lizards bear a red cross on their heads. Seek near the old tower by the old Roman road, here at the foot of this mountain, and over it erect a chapel, and cause prayers to be said for Saint Inanimus: I, who was boiled to death for the sake of my religion—in oil.'

''Sh-sh-shade of S-s-saint Ann-on-a-muss, w-w-what k-kind of oi-oil was it?' gasped Padre Cipriano.

'The shade seemed to collect himself as if about to bestow a kick on the padre, but changed his mind as he screamed:

''Hog oil. Go!'

'The priest departed in fear and trembling, and the next day the whole town rang with the news that an apparition had visited Padre Cipriano, and that a procession for some reason was to be made at once to the old tower. Accordingly all the population that could, set forth at an early hour in the afternoon, the padre first informing them of all the circumstances attending the ghostly visitor, the red-headed cross lizards by no means omitted. Arrived at the tower, they were fortunate enough to find a red-cross lizard, then another, and another; and it being buzzed about that one of them was worth, I don't know how many gallons of holy water—the inhabitants moreover believing, if they had one, they could commit all kinds of sins free gratis, without confession, &c.,—there at once commenced, consequently, a most indecorous riot among those in the procession; taking advantage of which, the lizards made hurried journeys to other old ruins. The inhabitants of another small town, having heard of the Miracolo delle lucertole, came up in force to secure a few lizards for their households: then commenced those exquisite battles seen nowhere else in such perfection as in southern Italy.

'His eyes starting out of his head, his hands and legs shaking with excitement, one man stands in front of another so 'hopping mad' that you would believe them both dancing the tarantella, if you did not hear them shout—such voices for an opera chorus!—

''You say that to me? to me? to ME!' Hands working.

''I do, to you!'

''To me, me, ME?' striking himself on his breast.

''Yes, yes, I do, I do!'

''What, to me! me! I?' both hands pointing toward his own body, as if to be sure of the identity of the person; and that there might not be the possibility of any mistake, he again shouts, screams, yells, shrieks: 'To me? What, that to me! to ME!' hands and arms working like a crab's.

'Then the entire population rush, in with, 'Bravo, Johnny, bravo!' At last, after they have screamed themselves black in the face, and swung their arms and legs until they are ready to drop off, both combatants coolly walk off; and a couple of fresh hands rush in, assisted by the splendid Roman chorus, and begin:

''What, me? me?' &c.

'But the battle of the lizards was conducted with more spirit than the general run of quarrels, for the people were fighting for remission of their sins as it were—the possession of every sanctified red-headed lizard being so much money saved from the church, so many years out of purgatory.

'The gendarmerie heard the row, and at once rushed down—four soldiers comprised the garrison—to dissipate the crowd: this they managed to do in a peaceable way. There happened to be a heretical spur in the town, in the shape of three German artists, and this incited the bishop of the province, who was at once informed of the miracle-working doings of Father Ciprian, to displace him.

'Thus, my dear friend, I was left to make love to the girls until I had to return to Rome—unfortunately only two weeks' time—for the newly-appointed priest had not the opportunity to set them against me.

'The moral of this long story is: that even vermilion can be worked up in a miraculous manner—if you put the powerful reflective faculty in motion; and doing so, you can have the satisfaction of knowing that by its means you can cause an invisible sign to be stuck up over even a country town in Italy: 'All Persons are Forbidden to Work Miracles Here!''