XX. DON CALIXTO AT SAINT PETER’S
DON CALIXTO UNDERSTANDS
Kennedy was anxious that Cæsar should turn into the good road. The good road, for him, was art.
“At heart,” the Englishman informed him, “I am one of those Brothers of the Esthetic Doctrine who irritate you, and I must instruct you in the faith.”
“I am not opposed to your trying to instruct me.”
The two went several times to see museums, especially the Vatican museum.
One day, on leaving the Sistine Chapel, where they had had a long discussion on the merits of Michelangelo, Cæsar met the painter Cortés, who came to speak to him.
“I am here with a gentleman from my town, who is a Senator,” said Cortés. “A boresome old boy. Shall I introduce him?”
“All right.”
“He is an old fool who knows nothing about anything and talks about everything.”
Cortés presented Cæsar to Don Calixto García Guerrero, a man of some fifty-odd, Senator and boss of the province of Zamora.
Don Calixto invited Cæsar and Kennedy to dine with him. The Englishman expressed regrets, and Cæsar said he would go. They took leave of Cortés and Don Calixto, and went out to the Piazza di San Pietro.
“I imagine you are going to be bored tomorrow dining with that old countryman of yours,” said Kennedy. “Oh, surely. He has all the signs of a soporific person; but who knows? a type like that sometimes has influence.”
“So you are dining with him with a more or less practical object?”
“Why, of course.”
The next evening, Cæsar, in his evening clothes, betook himself to an hotel in the Piazza di Spagna, where Don Calixto García Guerrero was staying. Don Calixto received him very cordially. He doubtless knew that Cæsar was nephew to Cardinal Fort and brother to a marchioness, and doubtless that flattered Don Calixto.
Don Calixto honoured Cæsar with an excellent dinner, and during dessert became candid with him. He had come to Rome to put through his obtaining a Papal title. He was a friend of the Spanish Ambassador to the Vatican, and it wouldn’t have cost him any more to be made a prince, a duke, or a marquis; but he preferred the title of count. He had a magnificent estate called La Sauceda, and he wanted to be the Count de la Sauceda.
Cæsar comprehended that this gentleman might be fortune coming in the guise of chance, and he set himself to making good with him, to telling him stories of aristocratic life in Rome, some of which he had read in books, and some of which he had heard somewhere or other.
“What vices must exist here!” Don Calixto kept exclaiming. “That is why they say: ‘Roma veduta, fede perduta.‘”
Cæsar noted that Don Calixto had a great enthusiasm for the aristocracy; and so he took pains, every time he talked with him, to mix the names of a few princes and marquises into the conversation; he also gave him to understand that he lived among them, and went so far as to hint the possibility of being of service to him in Rome, but in a manner ambiguous enough to permit of withdrawing the offer in case of necessity. Fortunately for Cæsar, Don Calixto had his affairs all completely arranged; the one thing he desired was that Cæsar, whom he supposed to be an expert on archeological questions, should go about with him the three or four days he expected to remain in Rome. He had spent a whole week making calls, and as yet had seen nothing.
Cæsar had no other recourse but to buy a Baedeker and read it and learn a lot of things quite devoid of interest for him.
The next day Don Calixto was waiting for him in a carriage at the door, and they went to see the sights.
Don Calixto was a man that made phrases and ornamented them with many adverbs ending in -ly.
“Verily,” he said, after his first archeological walk in Rome, “verily, it seems strange that after more than two thousand years have passed, all these monuments should still remain.”
“That is most true,” replied Cæsar, looking at him with his impassive air.
“I understand why Rome is the real school for learning, integrally, both ancient and modern history.”
“Most certainly,” agreed Cæsar.
Don Calixto, who knew neither Italian nor French, found a source of help, for the days he was to spend in Rome, in Cæsar’s friendship, and made him accompany him everywhere. Cæsar was able to collect and preserve, though not precisely cut in brass, the phrases Don Calixto uttered in front of the principal monuments of Rome.
In front of the Colosseum, his first exclamation was: “What a lot of stone!” Then recalling his role of orator, he exclaimed: “The spirits are certainly daunted and the mind darkened on thinking how men could have sunk to such abysses of evil.”
“Don Calixto is referring to those holes,” thought Cæsar, looking at the cellars of the Circo Romano.
From the Colosseum the carriage went to the Capitol, and then Don Calixto asserted with energy:
“One cannot deny that, say what you will, Rome is one of the places most fertile in memories.”
Don Calixto was an easy traveller for his cicerone. He far preferred talking to being given explanations; Cæsar had said to him: “Don Calixto, you understand everything, by intuition.” And being thus reassured, Don Calixto kept uttering terrible absurdities.
One day Don Calixto went to see the Pope, in evening clothes and with his abdomen covered with decorations, and he asked Cæsar if a photographer couldn’t take his picture in the act of leaving the carriage, so that the photograph would have Saint Peter’s as a background.
“Yes, I think so. Why not? The only thing will be that the photographer will charge you more.”
“I don’t mind that. Could you arrange it for me?”
“Yes, man.”
What Don Calixto desired was done.
“How did the Pope impress you?” Cæsar asked him as he came out
“Very favourably, very favourably indeed.”
“He has a stupid face, hasn’t he?”
“No, man, not at all. He is like a nice country priest. His predecessor was no doubt more of a diplomat, more intelligent.”
“Yes, the other seemed more of a rogue,” said Cæsar, laughing at the precautions Don Calixto took in giving his opinion.
The proofs of the photographs came in the evening, and Don Calixto was enchanted with them. In one of them you could see the Swiss guard at the door, with his lance. It was splendid. Don Calixto would not permit Cæsar to go to his hotel, but invited him for dinner; and after dinner told him he was so indebted that he would be delighted to do anything Cæsar asked him.
“Why don’t you make me a Deputy?” said Cæsar, laughing.
“Do you want to be one?”
“Yes, man.”
“Really?”
“I should think so.”
“But you would have to live in Madrid.”
“Certainly.”
“Would you leave here?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Then, not another word, we will say no more about it. When the time comes, you will write to me and say: ‘Don Calixto, the moment has arrived for you to remember your promise: I want to be a Deputy.’”
“Very good. I will do it, and you shall present me as candidate for Castro... Castro... what?”
“Castro Duro.”
“You will see me there then.”
“All right. And now, another favour. There is a Canon from Zamora here, a friend of mine, who came on the pilgrimage and who desires nothing so much as to see Saint Peter’s and the Catacombs rather thoroughly. I could explain everything to him, but I am not sure about the dates. Will you come with us?”
“With great pleasure.”
“Then we shall expect you here at ten.”
“That will be fine.”
Sure enough, at ten Cæsar was there. Don Calixto and his friend the Canon Don Justo, who was a large gentleman, tall and fleshy and with a long nose, were waiting. The three got into the carriage.
“I hope this priest isn’t going to be one of those library rats who know everything on earth,” thought Cæsar, but when he heard him make a couple of mistakes in grammar, he became tranquil.
THEODORA AND MAROZIA
As they passed the Castel Sant’ Angelo, Cæsar began to tell the story of Theodora and her daughter Marozia, the two women who lived there and who, for forty odd years, changed the Popes as one changes cooks.
“You know the history of those women?” asked Cæsar.
“I don’t,” said the Canon.
“Nor I,” added Don Calixto.
“Then I will tell it to you before we get to Saint Peter’s. Theodora, an influential lady, fell in love with a young priest of Ravenna, and had him elected Pope, by the name of John X. Her daughter Marozia, a young girl and a virgin, gave herself to Pope Sergius III, a capricious, fantastic man, who had once had the witty idea of digging up Pope Formosus and subjecting him, putrefied as he was, to the judgment of a Synod. By this eccentric man Marozia had a son, and afterwards was married three times more. She exercised an omnipotent sway over the Holy See. John X, her mother’s lover, she deposed and sent to die in prison. With his successor, Leo VI, whom she herself had appointed Pope, she did the same. The following Pope, Stephen VII, died of illness, twenty months after his reign began, and then Marozia gave the Papal crown to the son she had had by Sergius III, who took the name of John XI. This Pope and his brother Alberic, began to feel their mother’s influence rather heavy, and during a popular revolt they decided to get Marozia into their power, and they seized her and buried her alive in the in pace of a convent.”
“But is all this authentic?” asked the Canon, completely stupefied.
“Absolutely authentic.”
The Canon made a gesture of resignation and looked at Don Calixto in astonishment.
While Cæsar was telling the story, the carriage had passed down a narrow and rather deserted street, called Borgo Vecchio, in whose windows clothes were hanging out to dry, and then they came out in the Piazza di San Pietro. They drove around one edge of this enormous square. The sky was blue. A fountain was throwing water, which changed to a cloud in the air and produced a brilliant rainbow.
“One certainly wonders,” said Cæsar, “if Saint Peter’s is not one of the buildings in the worst taste that exist in the world.”
They got out in front of the steps.
“Your friend is probably well up on archeological matters?” asked Cæsar.
“Who? Don Justo? Not in the least.”
Cæsar began to laugh, went up the steps ahead of the others, lifted the leather curtain, and they all three went into Saint Peter’s. THERE IS NO PERFORMANCE
Cæsar began his explanations with the plan of the church. The Canon passed his hand over all the stones and kept saying:
“This is marble too,” and adding, “How expensive!”
“Do you like this, Don Calixto?” Cæsar asked.
“What a question, man!”
“Well, it is obviously very rich and very sumptuous, but it must give a fanatic coming here from far away the same feeling a person gets when he has a cold and asks for a hot drink and is given a glass of iced orgeat.”
“Don’t let Don Justo hear you,” said Don Calixto, as if they ought to keep the secret about the orgeat between the two of them.
They came to the statue of Saint Peter, and Cæsar told them it is the custom for strangers to kiss its foot. The Canon piously did so, but Don Calixto, who was somewhat uneasy, rubbed the statue’s worn foot surreptitiously with his handkerchief and then kissed it.
Cæsar abstained from kissing it, because he said the kiss was efficacious principally for strangers.
Then they went along, looking at the tombs of the Popes. Cæsar was several times mistaken in his explanations, but his friends did not notice his mistakes.
The thing that surprised the Canon most was the tomb of Alexander VII, because there is a skeleton on it. Don Calixto stopped with most curiosity before the tomb of Paul III, on which one sees two nude women. Cæsar told them that popular legend claims that one of these statues, the one representing Justice, is Julia Farnese, sister of Pope Paul III, and mistress of Pope Alexander VI; but such a supposition seems unlikely.
“Entirely,” insisted the Canon gravely; “those are things invented by the Free Thinkers.”
Don Calixto allowed himself to say that most of the Popes looked like drum-majors.
Don Justo continued appraising everything he saw like a contractor. Cæsar devoted himself to retailing his observations to Don Calixto, while the Canon walked alone.
“I will inform you,” he told him, “that on Saturday one may go up in the dome, but only decently dressed people. So a placard on that door informs us. If by any chance an apostle should re-arise and have a fancy to do a little gymnastics and see Rome from a height, as he would probably be dirty and badly dressed, he would get left, they wouldn’t let him go up. And then he could say: ‘Invent a religion like the Christian religion, so that after a while they won’t let you go up in the dome.’”
“Yes, certainly, certainly,” replied Don Calixto. “They are absurd. But do not let the Canon hear you. To be sure, all this does not look very religious, but it is magnificent.”
“Yes, it is a beautiful stage-setting, but there is no performance,” said Cæsar.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Don Calixto.
“That this is an empty place. It would have been well to build a temple as large and light as this in honour of Science, which is humanity’s great creation. These statues, instead of being stupid or warlike Popes, ought to be the inventor of vaccination or of chloroform. Then one could understand the chilliness and the fairly menacing air that everything in the place wears. Let people have confidence in the truth and in work, that is good; but that a religion founded on mysteries, on obscurities, should build a bright, challenging, flippant temple, is ridiculous.”
“Yes, yes,” said Don Calixto, always preoccupied in keeping the Canon from hearing, “you talk like a modern man. I myself, down in my heart, you know.... I believe you follow me, eh?”
“Yes, man.”
“Well, I think that all this has no transcendency.... That is to say....”
“No, it has none. You may well say so, Don Calixto.”
“But it did have it. That cannot be doubted, can it? And a great deal. This is undeniable.”
IT IS A MAGNIFICENT BUSINESS CONCERN
“It was really a magnificent business concern,” said Cæsar. “Think of monopolizing heaven and hell, selling the shares here on earth and paying the dividends in heaven! There’s no guarantee trust company or pawn-broker that pays an interest like that. And at its height, how many branches it developed! Here, in this square, I have a friend, a Jewish dealer in rosaries, who tells me his trade is flourishing. In three weeks he has sold a hundred and fifty kilos of rosaries blessed by the Pope, two hundred kilos of medals, and about half a square kilometre of scapulars.”
“What an exaggeration!” said Don Calixto.
“No, it is the truth. He is glad that these things, which he considers accursed, sell, because after all, he is a liberal and a Jew; the only thing he does, if he can, to ease his conscience, is to get ten per cent. profit on everything, and he says to himself: ‘Let the Catholics worry!’”
“What tales! If the Canon should hear you!”
“No, but all this is true. As my friend says: Business is business. And he has made me take notice that when the Garibaldini come here, they spend the price of a few bottles of Chianti, and then they sleep in any dog-kennel, and spend nothing more. On the contrary, the rich Catholics buy and buy... and off go his kilos of rosaries and of medals, his tons of veils for visiting the Pope, his reams of indulgences for eating meat, and for eating fish and meat, and even for blowing your nose on pages of the Bible if you like.”
“Do not be so disrespectful.”
When the Canon had made sure of all the square metres of marble there are in Saint Peter’s they went out into the square again. Cæsar indicated the heap of irregular edifices that form the Vatican.
“That ought to be the Pope’s room,” said Cæsar, pointing to a window, at random. “You must have been there, Don Calixto?” “I don’t know. Really,” he said, “I haven’t much idea where I was.”
“Nor has he any idea how he went,” thought Cæsar, and added: “That is the Library; over there is the Secretary of State’s apartment; there is where the Holy Office meets”; and he said whatsoever occurred to him, perfectly tranquilly.
They took their carriage, and as they passed a shop for objects of religion, Don Calixto said to the Canon:
“What do you say to this, Don Justo? According to Don Cæsar, the proprietors of the shops where they sell medals, are Jews.”
“Bah! that cannot be so,” replied the Canon roundly.
“Why not?”
“Bah!”
“Why should it shock you?” exclaimed Cæsar. “If they sold Jesus Christ alive, why are they not to sell him dead?”
“Well, I am glad to know it,” Don Justo burst forth, “because I was going to buy some medals for presents, and now I won’t buy them.”
Don Calixto smiled, and Cæsar understood that the good Canon was taking advantage of the information to save a penny.