Twenty Years in Europe

CHAPTER XXVII

1885

STILL IN ROME-PRESENTED TO POPE LEO XIII-STORY, THE POET SCULPTOR-RANDOLPH ROGERS-TILTON-ELIHU VEDDER-ASTOR RESIGNS-SECRETARY OF LEGATION DIES WITH ROMAN FEVER-I AM PUT IN CHARGE OF LEGATION-CAPRI-GOVERNOR PIERPONT-THINGS SUPERNATURAL-TALK AGAINST GLADSTONE-SHAKESPEARE WOOD-SENATOR MOLESCHOTT, A REMARKABLE MAN-INTERESTING LETTERS FROM GENERAL SHERMAN-PARTY STRONGER THAN PATRIOTISM; MY RECALL-MONEY LENDING AND TAXES-KEEP OUT OF DEBT.

February, 1885.-On Sunday morning we (myself, wife and son) together with others, were presented to the Pope, Leo XIII. The card of notification told us how we should dress. Full evening suit, with black cravat and black gloves for the gentlemen; black silk dress for the ladies, with black lace veils over the head, instead of bonnets. Our carriage entered the court yard at a private entrance, where dismounting we entered at a side door and went up the Bernini stairway. The Swiss guards, glad to hear their own tongue spoken, were very polite to us. Colonel Schmidt, their commander, is also a personal friend, who had visited us in Switzerland. He soon turned us over to the Pope’s personal body guard. These are young Roman nobles. We were led through a labyrinth of apartments, and put in charge of some of the court officers at the reception room.

“The reception will take place in just thirty minutes,” said one of the officials, and this gave us time to look out of the window, and wonder what part of the enormous pile called the Vatican, we were in.

Outside, the four thousand room building, with its two hundred stairways, looks like an ugly collection of big yellow factories. Inside, it is all magnificence. We were standing in rooms where the Popes ruled Rome, at a time when Rome ruled the world. The history of a thousand years was made and written under this roof. The genius of many ages found a resting place here. Here for centuries God, himself, was supposed to have his only agent on earth.

Just as we were meditating on all this, a rustle of officers entering the room is heard. We are placed in a line, single file, around the walls of the apartment. “You will all kneel,” whispers an official, “as his Holiness enters.” That moment the door opened, and Leo XIII, robed in scarlet, entered the room. Everybody knelt. As he passes the door an attendant draws the scarlet robe away, and he stands before us in white and gold. He is a very old man, tall and thin, colorless in face, and with silvery hair; there is a soft, sad smile on his lips; his clear, steady eyes look out of a kindly face. He motions us all to rise, and then slowly walks around the room, speaking a gracious word to each as presented. An official walks with him carrying a list of our names. The Pope’s half-gloved hand with the signet ring, is held forward for us to kiss. His words are kindness itself. I never saw so saintly a face before. I do not wonder that many in the room are weeping. They are faithful Catholics and this moment is the event of their lives. Some have traveled ten thousand miles to have that white hand placed on their heads with a blessing. To them, the doors of paradise are this moment visibly opening.

Everybody, Catholic or not, was affected. Shortly the kindly voice comes to us, “And you are from America-America-good, far off America,” he says in English, and then changes to French, and Italian. He placed his hand on our heads and blessed us-and, believing or disbelieving-a feeling of a holy presence moved us.

Shortly, a signal indicated that all should come to the center of the room and kneel, and then a blessing was asked on the lands from which we came. It was an impressive moment. Numbers kneel down and kiss the gold cross on his embroidered slipper. An attendant enters, throws the scarlet robe gently over his shoulders again. There are some kindly smiles, a bow, and the Pope leaves the room. Our reception at the Vatican was over.

Last evening visited Mrs. Greenough, wife of the celebrated sculptor. They have lived here many years. She is an interesting woman, but delicate as a lily. She talked much of Margaret Fuller, whom she had known well for many years.

We find many self-expatriated Americans here, first-class snobs, mostly a rich and terribly stuck-up gentry, hanging around the edge of Italian society, watching opportunity to pick up an alliance with somebody with some sort of a title. They are usually ashamed of their own countrymen, even those of them who are here, and regard themselves entirely too good to be Americans. It is a great pity in their minds that they were born in the United States at all, where, likely as anyway, their fathers made their fortunes selling hides and hominy.

March 21.-Spent last evening till very late, sitting on the steps of Frank Simmons’ studio, talking with W. W. Story, sculptor and poet. He is the finest talker I ever heard. Of course, he knows everything about Italy; he has lived here most of his life, and his “Roba di Roma” tells more worth knowing about Rome than any similar book ever written. We talked, too, of America. He lamented that he had never achieved distinction in the United States as a poet. That, not sculpture, had been his first ambition. I told him he did not know how many loved his name at home for the poetry he had written. On my last trip over the sea, a young and discriminating newspaper man had envied me that I was going where I would know Story, the poet. He had committed “Antony and Cleopatra” to memory, repeated it to me walking on the ship deck one evening, and said it was the “best American poem.” The incident gratified Mr. Story very much, as it should.

We spoke of the Washington monument at the capital. “It is nothing but a great, high smoke stack,” he said. “There was a design offered, for a monument, that had some taste, art, grandeur about it, but the mullet-headed politicians, knowing nothing, and thinking they knew everything, naturally threw that aside.”

There was but little outlook, he said, for any immediate realization of true art in America. “There was but one god there-money getting.”

I liked Mr. Story’s generosity of speech concerning other sculptors less famous than himself, and for poets with less renown than he believed he had. He is altogether one of the most agreeable men I ever knew. His studio is full of fine work that brings great prices, but it does not seem to me greater than the work of Frank Simmons, or even some of the statues of Ives and Rogers. There is a sea nymph at Ives’ studio more beautiful than anything else I ever saw in marble.

We often go to the studio and the home of Randolph Rogers. He is an invalid, has been paralyzed, and sits most of his time in his chair; but he has a great, big, joyous heart, and is happy at seeing his friends. His fame is very wide. His “Blind Nydia” is one of the great things in marble. Very many copies of it have been made. They are everywhere. “Nydia” and his bronze doors at the Capitol in Washington, more than all else, made his reputation.

I have met no one in Rome who seemed to retain his real, joyous, bluff Americanism as Mr. Rogers does. He knows his art, but he has not forgotten his country.

His home is one of the most delightful here. He is justly proud of his wife, as she is proud of his art. “She must have been very beautiful in her youth,” said an American innocently. “Yes,” replied Mr. Rogers, “my wife is beautiful now.”

The other morning occurred the wedding of his daughter to a worthy and handsome officer of the Italian army. Every hour he is expecting orders to go to Africa to help avenge the massacre of a lot of his countrymen.

Mr. Tilton, the American painter, showed us a Venetian scene yesterday of supreme loveliness, as most of his water scenes are. I never saw so much delicious coloring as is always in his pictures of the Adriatic.

He sells mostly to the English, and at great prices. He showed me his selling book, and I was astounded at what he got. It was pounds, where others of our artist friends got dollars.

Went to Elihu Vedder’s studio. He received me very coolly at first, because he thought I mispronounced his name; a very important matter. Afterward, he took some pains to show me his work. It is certainly characteristic, at least, and original, and nobody ever misses guessing whose picture it is, if it should be from his brush.

March 25.-Mr. Pierpont, the Secretary of Legation, is down with the Roman fever. Strong and young and handsome as he was, constant late hours and cold stone floors were too much for him. He may never recover.

His coming here was almost a sensation, and no one ever got into “good society” in Rome so promptly. His handsome face, genial ways, good family and fine talents have made him welcome everywhere. He is a son of Attorney General Edwards Pierpont, of New York, once Minister to England.

They have taken him to the German hospital up by the Capitol. What makes his illness worse just now is that Mr. Astor, the Minister, has sent in his resignation and will go home at once.

April, 1884.-Went to the Island of Capri, only a couple of hours’ sail from the most beautiful bay in the world. This is the spot where the Garden of Eden ought to have been.

Went to the Blue Grotto-wonderful! While floating about there in a little boat, I thought of T. Buchanan Read’s lines:

Just mere common existence ought to be a delight on Capri. The combination of romantic scene, delicious air, blue sky, and almost bluer sea, make it adorable.

One should need little to live on here, and I think the peasants indeed have little aside from fruits and olive oil and wine. The young women are strikingly beautiful.

Tiberius, when he built his palace up on top of this wonderful Isle of the Sea, at least knew where to find the beautiful.

Ischia, even more beautiful, if possible, is close by, and we look over and think of the terrible fate of its people only a few months ago.

In front of us is Naples, and, in sight, Vesuvius sullenly smokes away as if to remind us of the eternal peril to all who stay among these loveliest scenes of earth.

We visited Pompeii, with its lifted mantle of ashes and cinder, that have helped mankind to patch out history. I was impressed by the extreme smallness of the Pompeiian houses. They look like little stone kitchens. Everything in the excavated city seems in miniature. One could think of a toy town built of stone, but supplied with everything wonderful of art and luxury.

I fail to see anything wonderful in unearthing Pompeii. It was easy to dig it out of its ashes. There is no lava there. And it would seem a question if two dozen people ever lost their lives in the disaster. It simply snowed ashes for a day or so, and why should people deliberately sit there and smother!

From the top of Capri we fancied we could almost see the temples of Paestum by the other bay, those temples without a history-those grandest ruins on the earth.

They want no history-their’s a voice

Forever speaking to the heart of man.

And we thought of the Paestum roses, too, of indescribable fragrance, that bloom twice a year, and that have flourished there on the sickly desert a thousand years. No story like this in all the floral world.

One time lately my wife admired very much a little water color of Mr. Tilton’s. This morning he carried it up to her as a present from the artist. It will long be treasured as a remembrance of one of the most genial men in Rome, and of a delightful artist.

April 19.-Young Mr. Pierpont died two days ago, and that before his father and mother could reach him. They are still at sea. Yesterday afternoon he was buried from St. Paul’s church in the Via Nazionale. The sorrow for his premature death was very sincere. Dr. Nevin read the service, assisted by the Master of Rugby School, and the pall bearers were the ambassadors of Austria, Germany and Belgium, with myself representing the United States. King Humbert was represented by the Duke of Fiano. The Italian Foreign Minister was also a pall bearer. There were many beautiful flowers by the casket. It was a sad burial, this putting into the grave a youth to whom the future had beckoned with such golden hand.

Mr. Pierpont’s death, and the resignation of Mr. Astor, put the affairs of the Legation into my care. The archives have been moved to the Consulate General, on Via Venti Settembre.

April 25.-Governor and Mrs. Pierpont came yesterday, and I took them out to the Protestant Cemetery to look at the casket containing their son. It stood in a receiving vault covered with roses. It was a sad day!

This afternoon Governor Pierpont talked with me about supernatural things. He doubted them himself, and yet, he said that when he was Minister to London he rarely was at a dinner in England when some one at the table did not relate of something supernatural that had occurred to himself or else to some trustworthy friend. This fact must put people to thinking. Possibly there was something in it after all. Get it out of the hands of charlatans, and possibly we could lift the veil a little more than we imagine. If there is another world, spiritual, it need not be very far away.

April 20.-The parties and the receptions and the balls go on this winter, just as if all Rome had nothing to do but have a good time.

The Journalists’ ball the other night was most striking for its elegance, its diamonds, gowns, and its beautiful bejeweled women.

The German artists’ masquerade ball was also beautiful. We went to both the same night.

The Roman theater is good, and spectacular opera is given this winter with great effect. “Excelsior” is the most gorgeously gotten up spectacle of dance and scenery I ever beheld. Its ballet possibly has never been approached.

A funny story is told here of Joaquin Miller. One afternoon he attended a reception at Miss B.’s. Two old maids, Italians, asked to be seated next the lion of the Sierras. They listened in utter astonishment, but with perfect gullibility, while he wickedly regaled them with immense stories of how he had galloped over the plains of his native country on the backs of wild buffaloes, how he had fought prairie fires, slain Indians and rescued maidens from captivity. The women were amazed, and with grateful hearts thanked their hostess for introducing them to so great a hero. The party over, all are gone, and Miss B. looks about the house. To her astonishment, the wild-eyed poet is there yet, standing alone by the dining-room table. She gently draws the portiere aside to look. He holds a glass of wine in his hand, and, as he balances it, and looks upon its color, he smiles and exclaims to himself, but in tones heard behind the curtain, “Holy Moses, how I did lie to those women.

April 22.-Went to a party at Shakespeare Wood’s the other night. He is correspondent of the London Times, and is an important man among foreigners in Rome. They say his salary is as good as a Minister’s. I fear that is a mistake. Saw many noted people at his house-Lord Houghton, the poet and critic, the Trollopes and others.

Heard much talk against Gladstone. One English gentleman said, with apparent approval of a little group of English listeners, “The man ought to be shot for the good of England.” It seemed inexplicable, impossible-so much hatred of the world’s best Christian statesman.

Lord Houghton is a good, gray, old man, full of vivacity and with opinions of his own. He has renown in Italy, for he has been a great friend in the country’s struggle for liberty, and his life of literature has had great reward.

Shakespeare Wood knows more about Rome and Italy than half the Italians themselves, and is besides an artist and an antiquarian.

Last evening I was invited to dine at the home of the celebrated Professor Moleschott. He is a distinguished author and a Roman Senator, though a born German. My invitation came as a result of a letter to him from my friend Johannes Scherr, the German author. Moleschott had once lived in Zurich.

This was an “evening” for certain delegates to a World’s Congress of scientific and medical men. Dr. Sternberg, of Washington, was there. Few of the guests understood Italian. Moleschott seemed able to speak with each in his own tongue. Scherr’s letter caused him to pay me no little attention, and he chatted with me considerably. He is the most remarkable looking man I ever saw. Has a head like a lion. He is short, stout, broad faced, and has big eyes, and low side whiskers. I asked him how on earth he could learn so many languages in addition to his enormous duties as a scientific writer, a constant lecturer, and an Italian Senator. “I don’t learn them,” he said; “I must absorb them. I have no time to learn them.” “But you must have studied English,” I replied. “You are too much of a master there, to be merely an absorber.” “Well, yes, a little bit,” he answered. “That is, I laid your English grammar on my dressing case mornings for a few weeks, and while I walked up and down the room putting on my clothes I got hold of your language.”

He was one of the rare men we meet who seem to know everything. Observation great, memory powerful. What would the world be, if all men had Moleschott’s intellect. Like Goethe, he has universal knowledge.

He passes our door daily in an open cab, and is always sitting with an open volume in his lap, and yet he sees and greets people and goes on with his reading.

May 1, 1885.-I have this entry in my diary: “This day I resigned my post as Consul General of Italy and will soon leave the service, after many years of constant and faithful duty. These last weeks I have also had charge of the diplomatic affairs of our country here, and it is gratifying to receive, by the same mail that brings a letter asking my resignation, another letter expressing appreciation of some of my recent services.”

On my arrival home in America, I found the following letter waiting me from General Sherman:

“Dear Byers: – I have your letter written at sea, in which you give me the first information I had received that you had been displaced at Rome. I knew, of course, it was bound to come, for party allegiance with us is stronger than patriotism, and the pendulum of time was bound to swing against us, and we will be lucky if we are not indicted for horse stealing and for the murder of men who resorted to arms to destroy the very Government of which now they are the main supporters. Of course, in due time the pendulum will swing back, but meantime, we must lie low, else history will record Jeff Davis the patriot, and Mr. Lincoln the usurper.