XLII
It is the dream of the owners of Villino Loki to build on another wing; but, so far, funds do not run to this. The Villino is sadly short of guest chambers; that is because one room has been for ever allotted to the little Oratory.
This little Chapel is a haven of peace. One’s thoughts turn to it when one has the misfortune to be away from home. Over the altar there hangs a large, wonderfully beautiful crucifix. The figure, white majolica, was bought in a villainous den of a curiosity shop on the Tiber. We remember how it shone out of the darkness at us, and we felt it had to be ours! It is now affixed to a large gilt carved wood cross made for us by the doratore in Piazza Nicosia.... Excellent ruffian! The cross has one arm much longer than the other, though no one would know it who did not measure; and it has the inimitable stamp of the artistic hand bound by no slavish measure or hideous time-saving mechanism.
The Chapel is chiefly white and gold. Two large Donatello angels, warm ivory-coloured, from the Manifattura di Signa, carry the red Sanctuary lamps. One is certainly the real Donatello—the other, we fear, a poor foundling. But they both look very well.
There is a great window over the moor.
The few small statues are, we think, attractive; chiefly decorated with bronzy golds and deep colours. There is St. Louis, King of France, specially carved by a Bavarian artist; a slender noble figure with a face of grave asceticism, holding up the Crown of Thorns. And there is a sternly warlike St. Michael, all golden, resting on his sword. And a St. Anthony ‹a real discovery this› lifting a pale countenance that seems on fire with ardour towards the Divine Infant who stands on his book—St. Anthony is “in glory”; his habit golden over the brown. St. George, a fine splash of colour, charges the dragon over the fireplace. It is a most satisfying dragon with red jaws open and a green claw tearing at the lance that has conquered him. St. George’s iron-grey horse, with flowing crimson trappings, starts aside and rolls a distraught eye—as well he might. It is all in plaster and in rather deep relief. Two tall golden wood-carved Roman church candlesticks flank it on either side, fitted with electric light.
