It takes me also past the hideous lighthouse which Argentina thrust upon the Italians, and which has been erected upon a spot from which one has perhaps the most commanding view of Rome, its near and distant environment.
This morning I determined that I would spend a half-hour in the Church of S. Onofrio and refresh my recollections of the frescoes of Baldassare Peruzzi and of Pinturicchio, and pay a tribute to the memory of the greatest poet of the late Renaissance, Torquato Tasso. On the side of the steps that lead down to the shoulder of the hill surmounting St. Peter's is an oak-tree, long since dead, but securely banded and spliced and propped by indestructible metal. Here, it is said, Tasso sat and contemplated, too forlorn and ill further to poetize, during those months of 1594 while he was awaiting his call to the capitol to be crowned poet laureate. When the illness to which he succumbed increased to such extent as to incapacitate him he repaired to S. Onofrio "to begin my conversation in heaven in this elevated place, and in the society of these holy fathers." It is strange enough that Tasso is a very real and living force in Italy to-day. Not only are many of his poems, and selections from them, read in the schools, but "Jerusalem Delivered" on the screen has recently had a remarkable success in Rome and in other cities of Italy.
The Convent of S. Onofrio is now scarcely more than a reminder of what it was in its golden days. Long before the Italian Government had abolished the right of monasteries to hold property, and therefore delivered the death-blow to the parasitical grasp which they had upon this country, the Ospedale Bambini Gesu had taken possession of a large part of it and converted it into a work of mercy and of salvation which finds, I fancy, more favor in the eyes of people to-day than does conventual life. The church, rather impressive from without and particularly when approached from below, is small and dainty and has distinctly a spiritual atmosphere. It is what the Italians call molto carina. When I entered the church there was one solitary female prostrate before an image. I fancied that she had had a troubled night and had repaired to this sacrosanct environment early in the morning to purge herself of her sins and to ask forgiveness. For a long time she remained in an attitude of profound contrition, and I was curious to see if, on arising, she displayed in feature or in form any evidences or manifestations of indulgence in those transgressions which we are taught are so offensive to the Lord. My vigil was rewarded by the sight of age, deprivation, and poverty. Had pulchritude or passion ever been a part of her, all sign of them had passed; had sins of commission ever brought to her riches or the semblance of riches, she had long since forfeited them; had her transgressions been translated into fugitive pleasures, no signs of them remained. Like Tasso, she had repaired there to begin the conversation she hoped to continue in heaven. It is much more likely, however, that she had gone to church without definite antecedent thought or determination. It seems to be as much an act of nature for women in Italy when they reach a certain age to haunt the churches as it is for their hair to turn gray. They do it quite as mechanically as they do their housework. I often doubt that there is any spiritual or emotional feeling accompanying it whatsoever. I am certain that the recitation of prayers which were learned in infancy, and which have been repeated thousands of times without the smallest attention to the significance of the words, as children recite them, is not associated with any spiritual alteration, neither humility nor exaltation. It is part of the meagre, barren daily life of these old women, and they get from it something which for them constitutes pleasure and satisfaction.
As I sat in contemplation of the frescoes surrounding the high altar, and which set forth the coronation of the Virgin, the Nativity, the Flight into Egypt, a middle-aged monk or priest came forward and volunteered to draw the curtain that more light might fall upon them. He was incredibly dirty and dishevelled, and he had lost an eye, but he was gentle and simple and friendly. He told me what he knew about the frescoes; he bemoaned the evil days upon which the world had fallen, and he expressed the hope that peace and tranquillity would soon again be ours; but when I attempted to talk to him about the significance of the war and the universal awakement to man's rights that would flow from it, I found that his comments were ejaculatory and that his reflections had no root in thought or reason. It is incredible that a person so naïve and so lacking in every display of intelligence, culture, and perspicacity can be a spiritual teacher or guide. Perhaps it is that faith alone is necessary that one shall satisfactorily fulfil his duties as priest.
He called my attention to an oil graphite on the side walls of the chapel which had been uncovered in recent times. In early days its artistic merit or value was not appreciated and it had been covered over with other pastels or paintings thought to be more appropriate or more fitting. The composition is a figure standing in what seems to be a square box and on either side a number of closely massed masculine figures, each one having a different facial expression, one of astonishment, another of incredulity, another of humility and satisfaction. It depicted the Resurrection of Christ, my little friend thought, but when he saw a figure outside the box that resembled Christ, he thought it must be the resurrection of Lazarus, and then in the most childlike way he remarked that the figure in the box seemed to be a female one, and as that didn't seem to fit in with the resurrection of Lazarus he gave it up. I fancy that he had never read that when Martha and Mary made their successful appeal Lazarus had been dead four days, and that after Jesus lifted up his eyes and said, "Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me," Lazarus came forth bound hand and foot with grave-clothes and his face was bound about with a napkin. These accoutrements of the grave would successfully conceal sex, even from the eyes of a sacerdotal Sherlock Holmes.
I persuaded him to take me into the convent that I might see Leonardo's lovely fresco of the Virgin and the Child, and standing before it he spoke of the sweetness of the mother's expression and of the dignity and nobility of her pose and carriage in a way that made me forget his ignorance and his unattractive exterior.
In the northwest chapel of the little church is the grave and monument of Tasso. There is nothing particularly meritorious about the monument, and there is nothing even suggestive of poetry. The effigy represents the poet in the costume of a Spanish cavalier as he appeared at the age of his greatest activity. The chapel opposite is a jungle of frescoes depicting scenes in the life of S. Onofrio, who lived like an animal in the desert for more than half a century, and who, for thus outraging nature's laws, was brought to Rome to teach others how to live acceptably in God's eyes. After he had gone to his final reward, which we trust was the opposite of a desert, the church in its wisdom made him a saint.
I did not attempt to visualize the desert-dweller or his activities as I descended the steps that lead from this lovely hill to the Tiber, for I was soon lost in contemplation of a view with which I was very familiar but which now presents itself at a different angle, for I had never been down this well-worn stone staircase. The little street led first past the fine old Salviati Palace, a vast, massive structure built apparently to provide a sumptuous piano nobile and a great impressive court. It has, I suppose, a definite architectural beauty, but to me it looks merely massive, cumbersome, and overgrown. It reminds of nothing so much as of a lady whose figure, once worthy of admiration, had become altered by the adipose that is fatal to beauty. From here it is but a few steps to the Villa Farnesina, with its priceless possessions from Raphael's hand, but my way leads me across the rickety iron suspension bridge immediately in front of the Salviati Palace, to cross which one must pay a penny. From the middle of this bridge one gets a stunning view of the Castle of S. Angelo and the Holy Ghost Hospital. The latter, an enormous Renaissance structure, accommodates upward of five thousand patients. It looks to-day much as illustrations of it show that it looked five hundred years ago. In those days it was the last cry in hospitals, but it is far from that to-day. In fact, as a hospital it leaves much to be desired. I go there sometimes to visit the library, which has one of the largest collections of incunabuli in the world. As you look over it from the end of the Ponte Ferro, the dome of St. Peter's seems as if it were suspended from the heaven and its marvellous symmetry is most impressive. When you look at the dome of St. Peter's and the church together, there is something a little incongruous. I do not attempt to define it, but it is the same thing that you get when you look at a man whose hat doesn't fit.
After crossing the Tiber I strike into the heart of the densely populated city through a succession of narrow streets without sidewalks, and flanked on either side with never-ending little shops, now and then crossing a piazza which gives space and light to some massive mediæval palace. But none of them solicits me to stop until the Palazzo Braschi comes into view. I have seen its wondrous staircase, with its many columns of Oriental granite, so often that I would pass it by without a thought were it not for the brutally hideous figure of Pasquino, who greets me from his pedestal like an old acquaintance. I realize quite well that he has been called one of the most beautiful remains of antique sculpture, and that the expert eye, guided by a knowledge of Hellenic art supremity, may see charm and wondrousness in it, but I have bid him good-morning and good-day many times, and, like some old acquaintances, he does not get nearer my heart as I learn to know him better. There have been innumerable conjectures as to what the figure represents. The one most generally accepted is that it represents Menelaus supporting the dead body of Patroclus after the vile Trojan had stabbed him in the back while Hector was engaging his attention. You have such a feeling of pride in Patroclus and the wonderful things that he did with his Myrmidons that your heart goes out to him. When the Trojan War was going badly, he was persuaded to take up the direction of the forces against the enemy, and one cannot help feeling grateful to Menelaus for having played the good Samaritan to him at the end. But if this old King of Sparta had made Helen behave better when Paris came to visit them, she might never have eloped with that hazardous youth after he had made the memorable decision on Mount Ida, spurning power promised by Juno, and glory and renown tendered by Minerva, in order that he might have the fairest woman in the world for wife. But one should not be too hard on the old king. There is no telling just how far Helen acted on her own initiative and how far Venus was responsible for the flight. Still, were it not for this little irregularity in the conduct of the royal household, we would have been denied a knowledge of the greatness of Greece and a record of its accomplishments in one of the greatest poems, which has been a solace and a stimulation to countless lovers of literature the past two thousand years.
Though I bring no trained eye or accurate information to the discussion of Pasquino's identity, I am convinced, since seeing the bronze statue of a boxer which Lanciani unearthed in excavating the Baths of Constantine in 1885, that this statue is no other than an early marble setting forth the same subject. To me it is the effigy of a fighting brute. Whatever his name or his profession may have been, he has become known the world over as Pasquino, and satires and sarcasms similar to those which he is supposed to have uttered to the amusement and edification of the Romans in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries have become known as pasquinades all over the world.