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Carrie
LeFlore Perry
From: Sturm's Oklahoma Magazine (Jan. Feb 1911)
A Selected
Edition By Amanda L. Paige
Florence
Mother of Mine:
We came by way of Bologna and Ed pretended to
be greatly disappointed because the station was not filled with
vendors of Bologna sausage, saying that another belief of his
childhood was dispelled. The train only paused for which I was
thankful, the heat being intense, we were soon puffing hurriedly, at
least, so we were told, towards Florence. Italian train service is
not worthy of comparison with that of Germany, it is like it is with
us far south, the climate and the temperament of the people preclude
a hurry. Only forty-six tunnels today, or that is the number Ed
reported. I ceased to count when fifteen were on my list. The Tuscan
country is worthy of her noble sons, and the city of Florence drew
from me many an exclamation, where she nestles.
“Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps Her
corn, and wine, and oil, and plenty of leaps. To laughing life with
her redundant horn.”
Cook always pleases me in his selection of
hotels, he does not put us away in remote corners and thus lose
valuable time. Here we are near the Cathedral, within walking
distance of many an ancient pile.
After removing the dust of travel, and viewing
ourselves in numerous mirrors, we dined, then Heigh-ho for the
streets. We are enjoying a little joke on two of our party. They
were in a rush to see the Duomo and Ed had not nearly finished
dinner when they were off. We met them returning, greatly
disappointed, the edifice was not at all “magnificent.” We
followed their directions and found ourselves facing a museum, the
cathedral was far from there! I was not disappointed in the imposing
appearance, yet I do not think it appeals to me as did the
cathedrals at Cologne and Milan. Perhaps I shall like it better
under the glowing sun. We expect to attend mass there in the
morning. As usual in Europe the side walks are used as cafes. We sat
across the street from the cathedral, drank a little wine, gazed at
the vast edifice, and watched the passing throng. I wish I had a wee
bit of the Indian’s love for “firewater,” the Frenchman’s
love for wine, or the Englishman’s love for whisky and soda. With
all that admixture of blood I cannot get up a decent thirst for any
liquor, thus you see I make a fine prohibitionist! Hearing music
afar, we sought it, found the plaza near our hotel the scene of a
concert. Here we again sat before a table, this time with lemonade,
or at least the beverage honored with that name over here, for it is
not the American brand. To obtain the privilege of a chair, you are
expected to partake of something. I am always interested in the
constant drinking, and yet the absence of intoxicated men. In our
state, where red ink, Peruna, Jamaica Ginger, Lemon Extract, etc.,1
are in demand, such frequent quaffs of this glass, would mean
promiscuous shooting, and a town of bright vermilion hue! I remember
as well my grandfather’s dissertations on the evils of
prohibition. I understand his attitude now. Do you know, I do not
think this fair land has changed in a hundred years or so, the
people are just as their forefathers were, live in the same houses,
eat similar food, think the self-same thoughts. I know in my short
life I have seen greater changes wrought in the beautiful Indian
Territory than have taken place here in many centuries.
I like this quiet acceptance of destiny,
it is so restful. You have time for great thoughts, and perhaps
after a time, the satisfaction experienced in them, recompenses for
the lack of great deeds.
Did I hear you say “daughter” in
reproachful tones. Yes, I know. “Life is real, life is earnest”
but I am going to forget I am an American.
The night is the day over here, and it is easy
to be gay and laughter-loving when the stars are out. It is always
difficult to leave the novel scenes for our rooms and I am afraid I
am losing too many beauty sleeps. “Gather the rose buds while you
may.” I think I have, my arms are laden today, so out with the
lights, and “good night, sweet mother.”
Sunday, July 25.
All good people in Oklahoma are abed at this
hour, and I trust, dreaming of angels. You will please dream of me.
When the sun awoke me, I jumped up glad to be alive and in this old
world city. Even a day in the art galleries could not lessen the
ardor. The programme for the day would not admit of attending High
Mass, so we dressed and at six thirty were praying in the Cathedral.
Mother these magnificent temples of the Lord have not seemed like
His home to me, they are great museums of the ages, open to the
public for a fixed fee. Of course, the treasures are within, and the
people have a right to see them, yet my religious sentiments are a
tiny bit shocked when I see the lights gleaming on an altar where
rests the sacred Host, and careless jostling throngs almost through
His throne. This morning when only a few lowly worshippers were
before Him, and the tourists were not there, for the first time I
felt the full beauty of these, His sanctuaries, and my heart surged
with the thought that here mankind had given Him his best, great
artists, great sculptors had considered it an honor to lay their
genius at His feet. After mass, finding the Baptistry open, we
walked in to look and to pray. This church is said to have been
built in the sixth century, the dome is all covered with mosaics of
great beauty, and the floor bears a zodiac, said to be the work of
Strozzo Strozzi. The massive doors are of bronze, the work of Pisano
and Ghiberti. A mass commencing we remained until after the
elevation, and thus reached the hotel just at the breakfast hour.
This being Sunday that repast had been delayed to accommodate those
desiring a late sleep. The Florentine guide soon appeared and we
walked the streets of Florence in the Sabbath calm. This is one of
the few cities in Italy with a Sunday closing law, thus the shops do
not entice and there is an air of peace everywhere.
Of course, the art galleries and churches are
open to the people and they have no cause for complaint of lack of
places to visit. Let us skip a little mother. I feel so inadequate
to the task of writing intelligently concerning the pictures. Two
hours were spent in the Pitti and Uffizi Palaces looking amazedly at
the wealth of art displayed. Art, with a great capital letter,
mother, far beyond my capacity to criticize, yet I know the ones I
like best and have safely stowed away in my house of dreams
realized. “I’ll bring out for you, Raphael’s “Madonna
of the Chair,” the “Magdalena” of Carlo Dolci, Del Sarto’s
“John the Baptist,” Guido Reno, “Cleopatra,” Titian’s
“Flora,” Fra Angelico’s “Angels” and Botticelli’s
Consumptive Madennas! Then when you are keyed to the highest pitch,
I shall tell you of the Venus de Medici, that poem in marble with
which I was so enamored, I longed to clasp her within my arms and
fly with her to the Golden West. After standing before her, the
gallery attracted me no further, I simply wished to gaze and gaze
until always, like the Lion of Lucerne she would be my very own. It
is said that Florence retains her ancient form, and is very much as
in the years of her prime, I believe it, for the streets are quaint,
her houses queer and over all broods a spirit not of the twentieth
century. We stood where Savanarola paid with his life for being in
advance of his age, offered homage to the house that saw Dante open
his eyes to this earth, passed by the church honored by his
marriage, then on to Santo Croce’s hallowed walls. Here rest the
bones of Michael Angelo, Galileo, Alfieri and Macchiavelli.
“These are four minds, which like the
elements Might furnish forth creations.”
We saw a tomb to Florence’ fair son but
“Dante sleeps Afar” Mother dear.
“There be more things to greet the heart and
eyes/ In Arno’s dome of Art’s most princely shrine/ Where
sculpture with her rainbow sister vies/There be more marvels yet,
but not for mine.”
Promptly at three-thirty the carriages appeared
and we were off to drive beside the Arno. The afternoon was warm and
sunshiny, the sky was true blue, yet in justice to Oklahoma I must
say not bluer than her skies. We passed the home of Maechiaville
[sic] and Ed was greatly pleased, he has heard the term
“Macchiavellian policies” so often, the home of the man to whose
works the epithet was first applied was doubly interesting, then the
Fiesole, the road winding up the hill, gardens and villas, until the
topmost garden is reached, then a glorious panorama of Florence and
the Tuscan country. I leaned over the parapet entranced hardly
hearing the words of the guide, so engaged in watching the hot sun
making long wavy lines over the city, (the lines which in my
childhood I fancied were ropes from heaven whereon the angels swung
in happy abandon), and the hills softly green beckoning all to seek
their cool embrace.
When the line of carriages commenced the
descent, we were treated to a diversion not planned by Mr. B. A
runaway came swinging crazily along, we heard the sound, but did not
heed until our driver swerved his horses so quickly we lurched
forward violently. Ed opened his lips to remonstrate when we saw the
vehicle swept past our wheels. Owing to the celerity of the drivers,
not one of our party was touched, the maddened animal was given the
right-of-way and he passed from sight trailing the ruined cab
behind. All along the road were broken bits, at the gate below we
saw him standing broken and dejected, quivering like a frightened
child. I hope his master was kind and gentle to him, he looked so
pitiful there, beside his captor.
On the fashionable Cascine we saw really
beautiful women, and others doubtless lovely to Italian eyes, but
for me they were blessed with too much nose. Ed found much enjoyment
in bowing and smiling to the indolent beauties and they returned his
salute with charming grace. One raven haired goddess of a truly
beautiful type, accompanied by a masculine fashion plate, passed us
several times, and with consummate skill she would attract the
attention of her escort elsewhere, and then would bestow upon my own
American, a radiant smile. Oh, she was well worth a smile or two. I
am just delighted to have seen such a perfect bit of God’s
handiwork. At the extreme end of the promenade is a monument by
Fuller erected to the memory of the Rajah of Kalapore, who died in
Florence in 1870. It has an Eastern air strangely at variance with
its surroundings. I forgot to inquire if the young Rajah sleeps
beneath.2 I hope not, for surely his spirit would be
restless in the other world if his body rests in this foreign land.
I shall believe he was taken to his beloved India, and there awaits
the resurrection.
Just us two, were in the rubber-tired carriage,
rolling swiftly by Arno’s silvered stream, the spirited blacks
tossing their heads in proud disdain, what more could we desire.
Why, we could clasp hands and not one of the passing throng be the
wiser. Cook is the very prince of providers. He can have my vote any
old time in a popularity contest. The breezes are flower laden, yet
alas always to me is borne, the indescribable scent of the great
unwashed. I am ashamed of my awful American nose, I wish I could
lock up my love of soap and lose the key until Fair Italia is left
behind. Do you recall the solemn child of long ago, who stood beside
your knee and with tiny finger traced the Arno begging for stories
of the sons of Florence and crying, “Mother mine, shall we not
live there some fair day?” Dearest, because of you, my fancy
painted glorious pictures and now the reality is even fairer than my
dreams, yet this could not be my home.
After the drive was ended, Mr. B. called us
into the parlors, we were given the choice, an early express, Rome
at mid-day, or an afternoon local and a late night arrival in the
Eternal City. By a majority vote the early train was selected,
several of the party were greatly perturbed at giving up the morning
in the Mecca of Artists, yet when told that they might join us in
Rome the next day they decided to leave with us, so it’s “up at
five in the morning!” If I chat much longer with you, I shall be
saved the trouble of retiring, as I told you earlier in this
Florentine epistle, there is a Sunday law here and it is enforced.
The post-card boys are not allowed to sell their wares. When our
departure was decided upon we were in despair, a wail arose, “what
shall we do about our post-cards.” We decided to search the
highways and byways, and report. The Harvard man discovered a hotel
with an obliging clerk and in a few minutes he was doing, as we say
out in Oklahoma, “a land office business.” When Ed and I
returned to the hotel at ten o’clock we found Miss B., of
Australia, all alone in the parlor lamenting her lack of post-cards.
I offered to go with her to the desired hotel. As the streets are
well lighted and filled, and the distance short, Ed gave us his
blessings and bade us trot along. We were soon plunged into a
discussion of Uncle Sam and his numerous progeny. Miss B. is sore at
Americans and all things American. I told her not to mind me just
wade right in, I would surely enjoy hearing Uncle Sam and his
representatives abused, had often desired to do a little of it
myself. I wish you could have seen her look of astonishment. I said
I did not object to the old gentlemen quite so much as to his
numerous sons, who insisted that authority from him made them my
guardians, and knowing that I possessed a few drops of Indian blood
they were sure of my incapacity to manage my own affairs! Now, I
hear your gentle voice saying, “daughter.” “Well, mother” I
just could not resist it, too good an opportunity to express a few
of my sentiments. I have not recovered from that operation of
removing restrictions, you know. I cannot blame the Australian for
her feeling of resentment, yet I am confident that not a member of
this party would have knowingly hurt her feelings. You see,
Americans are so everlastingly well pleased with themselves and so
cock-sure of their ability to “Jump over the Moon,” that they
step around lively and boast without thinking of “the other
fellow.” She complained of the inability to decide which
type truly represented the U.S., the oh so narrow ones, the jolly
tolerant ones, or the courteous yet reserved ones! I said Uncle Sam
was the father of all, yet he possessed several wives, and they
molded the children, hence the variety shown! We had not as yet
produced a type true of the entire vast domain, and never would. I
pointed with pride to my incomparable husband, and exclaimed
dramatically, “Canada gave him birth, Texas mothered his
childhood, Indian Territory fostered his young manhood, and now
Oklahoma enjoys his perfection.” I had her laughing, the storm was
past. She asked: “What of yourself?” I made answer thus:
“France gave much, Germany furnished a little, England was there,
and the American Indian completed the whole, behold the result,
another Oklahoman.” As the anger was flown away, I read her a
little lecture with “put yourself in his place” for a text, and
I think I convinced her that Americans were not half bad. Now, I
wish I could preach a sermon to the children of the land of Freedom.
I’d tell them to go softly, not to make so much noise, to realize
that after all, we are not so much. We have youth that is true, and
if we are prudent some day we may astonish the world. In the
meantime, let us try to listen more and talk less. Mother I am going
to leave you this moment before you have time to scold me for
abusing Uncle Sam to a stranger! Good night, truly “cross my
heart” I love Uncle Sam, but I do not love all of his
understudies!
Hurrah for the best government in the world, I
guess, yes.
Lovingly,
C.
1.
At the time Oklahoma was a dry state. The items mentioned
here were drunk in Oklahoma because of their high alcoholic content.
2.
The Maharajah of Kalapore, Rajaram Cuttraputti, died while in
Florence at the age of twenty. Mrs. Perry would be sad to learn that
he was cremated according to the tradition of India far away from
his home. His family erected the monument in place of a tomb.
Rome
My Dear Mother: I have so many thoughts
clamoring for utterance, how shall I begin?
The road from Florence was long, yet so filled
with delight, I would not shorten it, not by even one mile! Do you
think my ancestor, when, with Napoleon he entered the Holy City,
experienced half the thrills, that this day have been mine? It is
like returning home after a long sojourn in the country of
strangers, this city does not belong to Italy, it is the heritage of
the Christian world! It is mine, it is yours, it belongs to the
humblest of the human race!
I always imagined Rome as in the very midst of
fruitful vineyards and fair gardens, thus the vast stretches of
parched-looking grass, drew from me many an exclamation. It looks
like Oklahoma, with the numerous herds of browsing cattle, and the
hay makers. The cattle are fierce in appearance, having immense
horns, I said, surely they are the forefathers of the Texas stock.
Ed insisted that they were the sacred cattle of the circus! The
hay-makers were not over-working, I assure you, the children were
playing the women chatting and the men sleeping, or chewing straws
and perhaps, thinking the “great thoughts” I wrote of from
Florence, do you think? All of us were early watching for the dome
of St. Peter’s, I am quite sure I saw it before Ed did yet he
insists that to him belongs the honor. A thunderstorm was brewing
when we reached the station, and we were doubly glad to see the
closed cabs awaiting us. We were driven to the Hotel Milano, on the
Piazza Monte cetorio, near to the heart of modern Rome and yet
within easy distance of the principal points of interest. Cabs are
so cheap in this city we do not expect to walk, so declares my
better half. It is said that this hotel is frequented by members of
Parliament, as it is on the square containing the house; I do not
doubt that statement. The afternoon was before us with nothing
planned, our good angel Mr. B. came to the rescue with an offer to
act as cicerone and take us to the Catacombs of St. Calixtus.
Cabs were quickly called and we commenced one
of the most pleasant afternoons of the trip; Mr. B. is an ideal
guide, not too loquacious, yet ready to vouchsafe any information
desired. We stopped first at the church of Santa Maria Maggiore, one
of the eighty dedicated to the Virgin, and built on the spot
selected by the Mother herself indicated to Pope Liberius by a fall
of snow on the 5th of August!
In this is the miraculous picture of the Virgin, painted by St.
Luke, and deeply venerated by all the faithful. There were many
other things fully deserving of note, but Ed declares my letters to
you will bankrupt him in postage, therefore I shall save a bit for
conversation.
As we stood on the beautiful portico the storm
broke in fury, then I sent my soul away back to pagan days, and it
was easy to believe we were watching with bated breath the thunder
bolts of Jupiter. It was soon ended and the sun tried to bid us be
of good cheer. I am sure I cannot express the riot of my emotions
when the Colosseum was before us, we did not tarry there but were
soon on the Appian way, then I was a Roman Matron, watching the
advance of the Emperor’s cohorts, and my husband was a tribune
with captives at his chariot wheels! I whispered this to Ed and he
refused to be a Roman, saying he preferred twentieth century
garments, the toga was so revealing! What do you think of that? We
visited the little chapel, which marks the spot where Peter fleeing
from Home met his Lord and said, “Quo Vadis Domine.”
We were shown a fac-simile of the original stone, bearing the
miraculous foot-prints, it being kept in another church. Poor old
Peter, how bitterly he must have wept over his cowardice, as he
trudged back to receive his crown of martyrdom! This was our
last stop until the Catacombs were reached, not because of lack of
desire, but the afternoon was not elastic. The sun was bringing from
the earth a myriad of sweet scents. When leaving the cabs we walked
within the monastery grounds. The breeze was so fragrant, so
clean and wholesome that I was glad of the time consumed in properly
registering the party. It is a precaution taken to prevent the loss
of a person below, without means of identification. As we were
preparing to descend, a drunken American appeared and insisted upon
joining us; Ed very diplomatically engaged him in conversation and
convinced that the only way to see the Catacombs, unless burdened
with a wife, was to go alone with a guide. The man was so pleased
with the idea he asked Ed to negotiate for a Monk; a few words in
French, and the last we saw of our countryman, a white-robed Monk
was leading him off to first visit the monastery. We were given
tapers and following a monk, with a flaming torch, we descended into
the tombs, it was so damp and cold, our jackets were not too heavy.
We have in our party a very young man from the state of New York,
who is obsessed with the idea, that he will contract a disease over
here and never again, see home and mother. The others do not spare
him, hardly were we below, when Ed coughed and buttoned up his coat
and said: “Here, Mr. B., fasten your coat, this air is dreadful;
we are quite likely to have a chill when we leave this hole.” The
others were “on” and such coughing and complaining, the poor
guide was quite bewildered and assured them there was little danger.
The young fellow from New York was pale with fright, and would have
gladly retreated could he have found his way. The bones of many have
been removed and repose under altar stones in far countries, or else
are scattered heaven knows where. I kept close to the Monk, his
torch was so illuminating and his descriptions so satisfying; his
English was perfect and his voice like a sweet-toned bell. The early
Christians buried their dead for keeps, some of the tombs are
intact, and present a formidable front, families evidently owned
certain rooms, as the inscriptions show; just as we own cemetery
lots. The guide informed us that it [sic] of dust or bits of bones
from the Catacombs, unless with special permission.
I do not think we have in Tour No.—any souvenir fiends, they are
all too well bred to act the part of vandals, as many tourists.
When we returned to the sun we purchased
several rosaries from the little curio show owned by Monks, and we
hope to have them blessed by the Holy Father and then we will give
them to our friends.
We returned to the city by a different route,
visiting two churches, St. Paul without the walls and St. Pietro in
Vincoli. The first is a structure of imposing grandeur, looking more
like a ball room than a church, adorned with pictures of all the
Holy Church. It is modeled after the Forum of Trajan, the columns
arranged in the self-same manner. It possesses a superb malachite
altar, presented by the Czar of Russia, and a queer Byzantine Christ
of great value, but I like our Lord, as western artists have
depicted Him. I enjoyed seeing the Byzantine masterpiece, yet I do
not long for a copy.
At St. Pietro in Vincoli’s Mr. B. obtained for us a view of the
chains of St. Peter, and after a long look at the Moses of Michael
Angelo, we were ready to return to the Hotel Milano. Our cab stopped
at the Collegio Romana, as Ed was anxious to leave the letter so
kindly given us by our Rt. Rev. Bishop to Monsignor Kennedy. He was
told to return in the morning. I do hope we can have the happiness
of being received by the Holy Father, the days in Rome are so few,
we are fearful it cannot be arranged.
After dinner Ed said: “A cab for us, and Rome under the
arc-lights.” You know Mother, this is our wedding anniversary and
we wished a few hours—just we two. This has been an ideal
celebration, breakfast in Florence, dinner in Rome! When the
cab paused at the fountain of Trevi and I sat watching the antics of
the numerous children, Ed presented me with a tiny package. I was
greatly surprised, as I had assured him that this Roman holiday was
sufficient for me, I found a cameo pin therein, a well-cut head of
Dante. In the exuberance of my joy I almost hugged him beneath the
glowing lights.
The streets were filled with people, passing to and fro, or sitting
at the ever-present tables, partaking of liquid refreshments.
I longed to cross the Tiber and see St. Peter’s, but Ed urged me
to await the morning for my first impression. We may have courted
illness by these hours of the night yet I can hardly think so, the
air is so deliciously fresh, not damp, but cool and sweet, after the
storms of the afternoon. The music on the Piazza has long since
ceased yet I hear voices below me, the people are reluctant to
concede the hours to slumber. I am restless, Mother mine, I feel too
strongly, the magic of these hours, the martial strains of ancient
Rome, still the lullaby of sleep. Good-bye until tomorrow.
July 28th
Mother, this is the hour when all sensible
people enjoy a little sleep; Ed closed the shutters and left me to
rest, but I decided I would find a conversation with you more
satisfying. He is disturbing shop-keepers with a couple of young
ladies of the party, who are as irrepressible as he is. Mother, do
you not often feel like exclaiming at the number of things we do in
one short day? I too, am astonished that we accomplish so much. I
can only attribute it to the wonderful system employed by Cook and
Sons, we do not lose a moment; we move with the regularity of a
Convent school.
I awoke with the birds this morning and the streets looked so
inviting, in the soft light, that I urged Ed to get up and go with
me to visit churches. He refused, so I dressed and ventured forth
alone. The streets were almost deserted, only a few laborers
plodding to work, and a number of women, evidently going to or from
the nearby churches. I found sextons sweeping and at side altars
masses were being read, with few worshippers present; I did not
tarry long, just using the sanctuaries as beads for my morning
rosary! The thought struck me that the church of St. Lorenzo,
containing Guido Reni’s Crucifixion, must be within a short
distance of our hotel, a look at my map of the city, and I was sure
all I need do was walk down the Corso and there would be the desired
basilica. I walked and walked, seeing a little girl before me I
hastened to her and with my map, made her understand my wish. She
gave instructions by gestures and I gaily proceeded, alas, if only
Sister had been with me, you know how easily I can lose my way, so
of course, I went far astray! This time, two women of the laboring
class, were the only beings in sight. I accosted them, my English
and my outspread map proved too much for them. I was in despair when
a well-attired gentleman approached and very courteously inquired if
he could be of any assistance. I poured fourth my tale, and he
smilingly, offered to accompany me. Within a few moments I was
before St. Lorenzo’s. I looked everywhere for the painting, not in
sight, only a heavy curtain above the main altar, hiding something
from view. A kneeling Monk and the busy sexton were the only
occupants, so I determined to interrupt the devotion of the priest;
a whispered “Father” and his attention was mine. My me, his
language was Italian, mine English. The conversation was low
pitched, but animated, at last I thought of pantomime, a gesture, an
imploring look, then “Guido Reni.” Joy, he comprehended, he
smiled, then hastened to pull a cord, and there was the masterpiece.
After due contemplation of it, I approached to ask the fee charged,
again was the kind father puzzled, yet only a moment then, he
beckoned me to follow. We passed into a long corridor and just as I
was wondering whether I was going to be presented to the Superior of
the order, we entered a chapel or sacristy I know not, here he
lighted a taper, unlocked a door beneath an altar and revealed to my
astonished gaze the sacred treasure of this church, that is, the
gridiron of St. Lorenzo and several other precious relics. When we
returned to the main sanctuary I opened my purse and thus endeavored
to make him understand my desire to pay him for the privileges
accorded me. His face was so reproachful and I know he said:
“Madam, I showed you those for the love of God and St. Lorenzo,”
So I closed my purse with heightened color, thanking him sincerely
and left him to his interrupted devotions. I found my way to Hotel
Milano without trouble, reaching it at seven o’clock. Mr. R. was
awaiting me as I had agree to attend mass at the Church del Jesu
with him this morning. We hailed a cab and soon arrived there. A
mass was in progress in a little chapel dedicated to the Virgin.
The walls are hung with votive offerings of
great value and the statue of our Lady is gorgeous without precious
stones. This church is considered the richest in Rome, and
from the display of jewels and cloth of gold hangings, I am quite
ready to believe in its fabulous wealth. I was gratified by the
reverence shown by Mr. R. I think I informed you in a previous
letter, that he is a clergyman of the church of England; Ed thinks
he is a man of fine character, so quiet and unassuming. When I told
Ed of all I had seen this morning he regretted his sleepiness, and
declared his intention to accompany me tomorrow. At nine-thirty we
were off for the morning. Ed had asked the guide and Mr. R. to
occupy the other seat in our cab, so we were quite sure of pleasant
hours. We passed the Pantheon, once dedicated to all gods, now a
Christian church and one of the best preserved Roman edifices. On
the Piazza del Compidoglio we remained quite a while enjoying the
view afforded of the ruins of Rome.
Proceeding to the Colosseum we were treated to a learned lecture; we
lingered amid the ruins until the flight of time forced us to
proceed. I was only reconciled to visiting St. John Lateran before
St. Peter’s by the knowledge that it was the oldest basilica, and
also the guardian of Scala Sancta. Here were crowned the popes of
Mother Church, until the day of Leo XIII. The treasures displayed
are beyond price, containing the heads of St. Peter and St. Paul,
and other relics too numerous to mention. The papal altar here,
legend declares, contains a table once used by St. Peter when
offering the sacrifice of the mass. The Scala Sancta is just across
the way from St. John Lateran’s and we paused there to watch the
faithful painfully climbing upward, many praying audibly. Ed and I
are going to ascend the Holy Sta[i]rs,1 the last day of
our visit here. On the return drive we visited the church of Santa
Maria in Aracaeli erected on the spot, where it is said, the Virgin
and child appeared to Augustus, thus causing him to refuse the
divine honors offered by the Senate, and build here an altar to the
heavenly apparition. Is it not a pretty legend? In this church is
also kept the Santa Bambino, the wooden Christ Child, to which has
been attributed many miracles. Ed is coming, I must cease. Mother I
pity your struggles to decipher my hieroglyphics, they surely call
for a Rosetta stone.
Evening
Ed succeeded in delivering his letter to
Monsignor Kennedy and was promised an early reply. Our Roman again
occupied our carriage. He deprecated the month chosen for our visit
to Rome, saying the weather was so disagreeably warm. I hastened to
assure him this was ideal; in Oklahoma we would now be panting for a
breeze. We visited so many churches, so many monuments, so many
ruins, I cannot find time to even cursorily mention them, in the few
short hours before me. I have my note-book and post-cards, so do not
fear, you will miss nothing! We left the carriages at the Palatine
and walked amid the ruins, listening to the interesting explanations
of the guide; we rebuilt the Rome of the Caesars; listened to the
wild beasts in the Circus Maximus; heard the cries of tortured
Christians in the Mamertine Prison. At this place we entered the
carriages and were driven to the Baths of Caracalla. Much of it is
an excellent state of preservation, here and there wild flowers are
shyly peeping, as if to cover the ravages of time.
A wealth of roses, drooping from the broken
walls, tempted us, and soon our hands were filled with exquisite
blooms; as we were not arrested by porter, plucking flowers must be
permissible.
Rome Continued
The Basilica of St. Cecilia is very attractive
for its numerous relics of the Saint and its ancient date. It is
said to be built over the ruins of her home, the cellars are shown
beneath, also the bath-room, where it was vainly tried to suffocate
her. There is a bit of fairy-land below the main edifice, an
exquisite chapel, built in honor of the dear Saint by Cardinal
Rampolla. It is fitted with modern electric lights so artistically
arranged that it is a poem, a stream of heavenly harmony! I could
have knelt there hours, steeping my soul in its beauty. When we
visited the cellar Ed and Mr. R. found the air filled with noxious
vapors and within a few moments the man from New York was white with
fear, and saying: “Here, let us get out of this, I have had
enough.” Such coughing, you would have thought all the party
influenza victims. The poor man turned to leave; I was so provoked I
caught his arm and said: “Heavens, can’t you see they are making
fun of you? Do be a man, stay and turn the joke.”
The fear of sickness and death was too deeply ingrained in him, he
rushed past me!
This evening, at the suggestion of Mr. B., we were driven to the
Pincio, and away up there viewed the mystic city far below, gleaming
with her myriad lights. Ed smoked delightful black Italian cigars
and talked with the driver while I leaned over the ramparts and
dreamed. As the man’s French was limited to a few words, his
English conspicuous by its absence, and Ed’s Italian vocabulary
not extensive the conversation was not very profitable. I know he
tried to show us the magnificent monuments erected to Victor
Emmanuel and Cavour, but as we had been having a surfeit of the two
we were not very enthusiastic. After leaving the Pinchio, we told
him to drive in ancient Rome and in the half light, time turned
backward. The Colosseum was in its prime, the golden house of Nero
was there, palaces were peopled and temples lifted graceful spires
heavenward. I like the up-hill and down of Rome, the turns and
twists of the Tiber, the indolent air of the people, I know poverty
exists, beggars are everywhere, yet to be poor does not appear so
dreadful here, Nature tries so hard to compensate with her radiant
sunshine, her soft breezes and her fragrant flowers.
Just below my balcony are two beggars counting
the day’s gain and laughing gaily. Thank heaven for the child-like
nations; what a grumpy place this old world would be if all were
Anglo-Saxons!
Good-night, my love to those precious boys; I
wish they were here to amuse me with their artless chatter.
July 29th
This is the hour when all Rome is wrapped in
slumber except a few shopkeepers, kept awake by irrepressible
tourists, like my husband and Miss L. Although they were not
cordially welcomed yesterday they are out today. We were down-stairs
before the night clerk was relieved, and his expression of surprise
was really comical. I know he called us names. It was worth the loss
of sleep to first view St. Peter’s, undisturbed by comments of
tourists or words of guides. Mother, it is like an anthem, intoned
by thousands of voices, in honor of our Lord of Host; it is a prayer
in stone! I thought I was prepared for its magnitude, yet I was
overwhelmed, not only by its vast proportions, but the harmony of
detail. I felt that it was the embodiment of the faith of the ages!
Mass was being offered at one of the numerous altars and we knelt
with the few worshipers there and tried to forget the edifice in
homage to the God it honored.
You may read of the glory of this, the largest
Basilica in the world yet, when it is before you your amazement
exceeds all bounds, words have been so inadequate to convey to you
an impression of its grandeur. The morning was so ideal, we crossed
the Tiber and drove to St. John’s Lateran’s to enjoy the
awakening of the city. Meals are very informal in sunny Italy; eat
when and where you please; houses are useful to sleep in and not
always used for that! We saw men, women and children partaking of a
frugal breakfast, in the streets or in doorways. I think the houses
are cold and they seek the sunlight for warmth. The view of the
Campagna and Sabine Hills from the steps of St. John Lateran’s is
very fine but we did not tarry long as we wished to reach the
Pantheon before eight o’clock and thus obtain a glimpse of the
Queen-Mother and King,2 it was said that they would
attend a memorial mass in that church at that hour. The streets were
so crowded our cab was stopped several blocks away so we alighted
and made our way on foot to the very guards. The Queen-Mother
lacks the youthful figure of Alexandra of England and is not so
beautiful as her portraits, yet her face is sweet and attractive.
The King is handsome, in a foreign way, and does not appear so very
small. We had excellent appetites for breakfast. Ed finds the coffee
of very good quality everywhere, and I am learning to accept without
comment the tea served.
I was called just now to receive a messenger
from the Vatican; we are to be given an audience at “eleven and
three quarters” tomorrow! The hours of the morning have been spent
in St. Peter’s and the Vatican. I was amused at the wrath shown by
our guide when we paused before the tomb of a pope, adorned with two
female figures of great beauty, one old, one young, both draped. It
appears that the draping was not the idea of the artist nor of the
pope for whom it was designed, but a succeeding pontiff thought it
unseemly for the sister and mother a pope to be in such classical
garbs and ordered them dressed! Our Roman said it was barbarous! I
cannot agree with him. I love the nude in art, but not as a
decoration for tombs in St Peter.
I did not kiss the well-worn toe of St. Peter—too many microbes
for me! In the Sistine Chapel, thirty minutes were spent, the guide
explaining the paintings. Of course, we were shown the Cardinal whom
Michael Angelo placed in hell; I could almost hear the pope saying:
“In hell did you say? Too bad, too bad; if it was purgatory I
could help you, but I have no jurisdiction over hell.” The Swiss
guards are very attractive, the dress designed by the versatile
Michael Angelo3 is so fantastic. The four cabinets with
their priceless works a respectable list, yet I see most plainly the
grand Stair-case of Michael Angelo and in the Vatican we were shown
so many treasures in so few minutes that I felt as if I attended an
Observation party, and this was the paper given me to record all the
objects seen. I know I could send you quite [sic] of art, “the
Lacoon,” [sic] “Apollo Belvedere,” “the Three Conovas,”
“Perseus and the Boxers,” and the “Mercury!”
If I forget all else these will remain. The
carriages have arrived, we are off; what at patch-work this letter
will be.
Evening
We drove first to the Church of the Capuchins
and were shown the Guido Reni, “St. Michael conquering the
Dragon,” the face is that of Beatrice Cauci, and is very
beautiful. We then went below to visit the bones of the dead. I
thought I had seen the climax of such display in Cologne, but the
Monks have far outdistanced St. Ursala and her Virgins! The old
Monks, long since dead, standing so solemnly in niches, framed with
the bones of brother Monks, struck me as being very comical and I
shocked several by my levity. There is a figure there called the
“smiling one” and the guide announced that all who wished might
gain an indulgence by kissing it, and when a lady asked me if I
would try for it I simply could not restrain my hilarity. Ed was
interested in the designs and was always finding some novelty and
calling, “ Just see this; that old fellow must have been a
genius.” I know some of the party were eager to leave the charnel
house but to me there was nothing awesome in the place. I know they
must have chuckled when doing the work. Ed whispered that the
Superior gave them this to do for recreation.
We visited the gallery containing Guido
Reni’s “Aurora” and again we saw the face of Beatrice Cauci as
the fairest maiden of them all.
Well, Mother, I too have seen the tomb of Adam!
Our guide told us the following tale, “ When Mark Twain visited
Rome, many years ago, he found great pleasure in teasing his
Cicerone, and one day greeted him thus, ‘Well, why don’t you
show me the tomb of Adam; I have seen nearly everything else.’ The
man quickly retorted ‘that is where I shall take you this
morning,’ so away they were whisked, to this church, where stands
an ancient tomb, bearing this inscription: ‘Here lies the body of
Adam,’ then follows a list of his titles, it appears he was an
English Cardinal, who many years ago died in Rome and was buried
here.”
By this hour about half of our party left us to
go by a five o’clock train to Naples. We decided Rome was too
unexplored for us to leave even to obtain a view of Pompei.
We enjoyed quite a long drive in and about the city and on the
Margherita promenade up the Janiculum; passed the oak, beneath whose
shade Tasso dreamed, the cell wherein he died, and the steps where
St. Phillip Neri sat watching the children play, often repeating his
admonition: “Be quiet if you can.” At the very top is a statue
of Garibaldi and here we left the carriages, and leaning over the
ramparts looked at the city far below. Ed enjoyed the “huge map”
and declares he is now at home in Rome, as he can locate all the
principal buildings. On the return drive we discussed international
marriages and American women; the guide waxed eloquent and assured
me, in all deference to my feelings, he must declare that American
women are given too much liberty! “See them all over Europe; their
poor husbands slaving at home to make them money for their many
holidays.” Again, “I have heard women address their husbands so
rudely that over here a wife would be knocked into the Tiber for
such an affront.” Ed was overjoyed at the discussion and solemnly
agreed with him in all his views, thus hoping to provoke me to
retort, but I was too wise. I said, how I deplored all this freedom,
for surely it was bad for women, children and idiots to be without a
master! I expressed my pleasure in the fact that my husband was not
such a man; he was the supreme head of his family. I was
amply repaid; Ed’s face was a study, he had fully expected me to
express a few opinions to that foreign gentleman. Between you and
me, I do think it would be far better for American wives to remain
with their husbands, and if both cannot visit Europe, then
let both stay at home.
After dinner we asked Miss B., the Australian
lady, to accompany us for a drive. She leaves us Friday for Naples
to embark for her distant home; I am sorry. We kept her out for a
couple of hours, but after reaching the hotel, we decided the
evening was not finished so Ed and I hailed a cab and visited the
Colosseum by star shine! It was glorious, and we fully enjoyed the
ampitheatre in the half-light. Suddenly I heard muffled breathing!
My me, I was frightened; Ed declares I caught his arm and whispered:
“Lions! let us go.” Of course, I did not fear wild beasts; I had
just remembered the guide said it was a favorite rendezvous for
robbers and thugs and we were alone with the cab driver, not even a
torch!
Well, we escaped unharmed, and I had my moments
of bliss—the Colosseum by night! I know Ed will tease me forever
and a day about “Lions.” Good-night sweet Mother.
July 30th
Did you ever get up in the morning so excited
that the world seemed literally to stand still? In all this city of
churches and priests we found it difficult to obtain an English
confessor or to be strictly accurate, to find one, to hear
confessions at an early hour. At St. Peter’s the sacristan said:
“Return at eleven.” Church del Jesu: “English priest in the
country.” At the Collegio Romano: “Return at nine-thirty” I
was ready to give up the thought of confessing but Ed said: “Let
us dismiss the cab, and just enter all the churches until we find
and inquire for an English priest.” It was very interesting
at first, yet after my fingers would not suffice to count all the
edifices entered, I felt tired of it all, and suggested a return to
the hotel and breakfast. Behold then a fair sign: “St. Sylvester,
English Pastor.” Hurrah! Alas for our hopes: “Father Kelley does
not enter the confessional before nine.” As we turned sadly away,
Ed saw a priest of unmistakable American type entering the door-way;
we were soon telling him our troubles; he was jolly and sympathetic.
“Aha! Americans in a hurry. Well, well, this is
Italy, the country of leisure, not hustling America.” Ed
was pleased, indeed, when, in the conversation he found that the
kindly priest was from Baltimore and the uncle of a college chum of
his. The Reverend gentleman promised “to wake up Father Kelly”
and soon our trials were ended. After breakfast we sought a shop to
purchase a black veil, as that is the regulation headcovering for
women in a papal audience. You know, mother, we sent our best
garments home from Chicago, and, of course, Ed’s dress clothes are
not with us, so when I read on the card: “ordinary dress clothes
for men,” I was greatly troubled—not so my husband, he whistled
as usual, and said: “I’ll borrow a suit from L.” That is a
very kind gentleman of our party, and one of the few with his best
clothes in his trunk.
Mr. L. was pleased to render such assistance
and this morning he helped attire Ed; I wish you could have seen him
when arrayed. Mr. L. is taller and broader than Ed so please use
your imagination. I am glad the Holy Father is not “a glass of
fashion!” We were laden with articles of piety; my arms bedecked
with rosaries of every hue.
I could hardly repress my laughter when I
glanced at Ed, but he assured me that I was not very exquisite, in
my black dress and veil.
We toiled up the marble staircase, past the
Swiss guards up and then up again until Ed said: “The Holy Father
would not have far to go from his home to heaven.” We were always
within sight of gorgeously attired guards. His Holiness appears well
protected. When we entered the first room we found ourselves in a
cosmopolitan crowd—Japanese, Chinese, African, Anglo-Saxons, and
etc.—we handed our cards to a much-bedecked functionary who
approached, he then disappeared and within a few minutes we were led
to a chamber containing a few chairs and several people. I was
growing nervous, because of the oppressive stillness, broken only by
the rattle of a rosary or a medal.
When the door opened and we were beckoned to
enter, another long wait, then a third change! Here we were joined
by many people, all waiting for the eleven and three-quarter
audience. I was dying to laugh, Ed looked so pious and his
garments hung so queerly. After a wait of seemingly
interminable length we were admitted to the chamber of audience.
Here we were arranged on three sides of the room, facing the east
door. We had in our number a bride, her white dress being the only
light in the somber line, her face was flushed with happiness and
eager anticipation—her lord looked pale and uncomfortable.
Why does a man always appear at such a
disadvantage on his wedding day? In the stillness I caught the faint
sound of approaching footsteps; the door was opened, the guard
appeared, waved his stick and we promptly fell upon our knees. The
Holy Father entered, accompanied by Cardinal Merry del Val, and
passed slowly along the line, extending his ring and speaking a few
low words of blessing. I had a hard struggle not to distinguish
myself by fainting my agitation was so great. The face of the Holy
Father is so gentle, so sweet, just as if he loved us all very
tenderly. There is an air of sadness over his features, not even
dispelled by his smile. He addressed a few words to us in Italian
and then gave the Papal blessing, for ourselves, our families and
friends. My eyes wandered often to the face of Cardinal Merry del
Val. I have followed his career for so many years. He has been to me
a very real personage and I have always said a visit to Rome without
a glimpse of him would be incomplete, and here he was before me when
I least expected it. Alas! For preconceived ideas of personal
appearance, my tall, ascetic archangel type of a man was not; the
Cardinal is tall it is true, but not ascetic looking I assure
you. He has a strong fine face, with glorious eyes and the figure of
an athlete. Oh well, I like the reality, just as well as the dream.
When His Holiness and retinue left the room we quietly sought the
ante-chamber, resumed our wraps and down the many stairs to the
waiting cab. The audience was only a memory—our tangible evidence
of the same, rosaries and medals galore. I am afraid the customs
officers will think we are preparing to open a shop and sell
religious articles! It was after one before we reached the hotel and
at three-thirty we were in a cab driving and talking. Mother do not
ask me to tell you of all the churches, etc., we have seen this
afternoon. Ed was master of ceremonies and we have surely gone at a
mad pace. At five-thirty he announced his intention of dismissing
the cab and of “shopping.” For hours he tormented Roman
shop-keepers, declaring he was avenging the wrongs done to American
tourists. He is selecting some cameos for me a necklace and
bracelet, has discovered several beauties and tomorrow a certain
jeweler has promised him a large selection. I hope my purchases will
not turn out, as did the Boston lady’s who bought a coral
necklace, and found it made of macaroni!
Our after dinner drive was not long this
evening as I am truly tired. Ed says cabs are so cheap we must drive
all we can. When I said we drove all the time at home, so where the
luxury, he whimsically replied: “Oh, we own those horses and
carriages, and this belongs to another, we hire it you
know, and it is so cheap.”
It is quite early in the evening and I am
writing in the library, just beside the open window. Ed is having a
time with the post-card boys, obtaining and imparting information;
his Italian is being enriched and the English of the boys rapidly
increased. The mother of Miss L. of New York, had an accident today,
fainted on the stair and in the fall, injured her wrist, severely
bruised her face and body; we were quite alarmed as her daughter is
in Naples and we know not what to do. When the physician came he
pronounced her condition not at all serious and declared that
tomorrow she would be quite well, except for the wrist and a little
soreness, so we shall rest in peace.
I am going to bed Mother. Good-night.
July 31st
Oh, glory, what a day of sunshine, to be our
last in the Eternal City! A letter from you gladdened my heart for
are you not quite well and a little lonely for me? We were climbing
the Scala Sancta ere the sun gilded the spires of Rome. Ed found it
far more difficult than I did, even though I was hampered by skirts.
I insisted on a drive along the Appian Way before returning to
breakfast; I never tire of the streets of Rome. The morning slipped
past ere we knew it. There are so many things to see, and to do I
wish the days were twenty-four hours long and the nights could be
dispensed with.
We visited the Convent of the Ladies of the
Sacred Heart in Trinita del Monti. When Ed told the portress
that I was a former pupil of the order in the U.S.A. we were
cordially welcomed and the nun remarked: “of course, you came to
see Mater Admirablis?” The only English Madam was engaged with a
class at the hour of our visit, so a young girl acted as our guide.
I fully enjoyed myself; it felt like home to be in a convent of that
order. We have explored all sorts of queer streets, Ed declaring
that is the only way to fully enjoy Rome. This afternoon we spent
quite a while searching for a place to have my hair shampooed; at
last we were successful, and having seen me turned over to the
“lather” lady, Ed left to enjoy his chief diversion.
Before leaving he inquired concerning the hours
of work and the wages—to hear him you would imagine he was a
“walking delegate.” The girl in charge received the
munificent sum of three dollars per month! I feel so nice and clean
this evening, with my sweet-smelling locks arranged in elaborate
coiffure.
I wish I could remain here months. Why I have
not seen anything yet. This evening we enjoyed our last drive in
Rome. We crossed the Tiber, bade farewell to St. Peter’s and the
Vatican, then back once more amid the ruins.
The beggars use the doorways of the churches
for bed-rooms and this evening as we were passing the Church del
Jesu we saw a family preparing for slumber. Ed had the cab stop as
there seemed a dispute in progress. The man evidently desired to
utilize a step for a pillow and the woman opposed it, urging him to
place his head on the bundle of rags she offered. The man upheld his
right to sleep as he pleased, the woman opposed; he tried the step,
she gently removed his head to the rags; he tried it again, same
result; at last he gave in and composed himself for the night as she
wished. Said Ed: “Oh, yes, Italian men boss their wives, of course
they do! Let me find that Roman guide!”
Mother will the memory of these days in Rome ever fade? When the
winds are blowing in far Oklahoma, and the newness and the crudeness
of my surroundings appear unbearable, shall I be able to close my
eyes and see all this? Mother, dear, with your poet, artist soul,
what did you in the years when first you dwelt in the wilds of I.T.?
Did you find in your husband, your babies and nature, compensation
for all you had missed? Did your visions suffice?
“Oh, Rome! My Country! city of my soul!”
how can I bid thee farewell!
We are off by early train tomorrow for the city of Columbus, by way
of Pisa. So few more days in sunny Italia!
Good-night. I love you always.
C.
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