Rome II

March 7, 2011

Couldn’t figure out why there was confetti on the ground everywhere, and why little girls–le bambine-- were everywhere dressed like princesses, and little boys– i bambini-- like animals. Then I realized I’d come to Rome during Carnevale, and that tomorrow is in fact Shrove Tuesday. By some good fortune I walked last night past the ara pacis–looking like it had been carved yesterday– and Augustus’ mausoleum to the Piazza del Popolo, where a great festivity was going on. Hundreds of people were watching light shows on the facades of the buildings, milling about, shooting glowing toys into the air. Horses were running around and around in a little arena. I couldn’t figure out what that was–a race without riders?– but it was grand. A baby less than a year old was in papa’s arms, pointing at everything with a look of transported wonder on his face. I prayed that emotion might remain with him through his life, even if he didn’t remember why. The jewel-box Baroque churches on the Piazza and along the Via Corso were all open, each gaudier than the next. I went in to each. In some there were worshipers, singing and praying aloud, either ignoring the tourists or courting us. Some of the art was exquisite, some of it was overrun by its own emotion. One woman had a show of her own paintings in a side chapel. Unfortunately the art was crap, so I didn’t try to talk with her about it. A South African couple had left a bitter comment in the comment book about how rude all the Romans are, and how back in civilized places you retreated into churches for comfort, whereas they had found more rudeness inside. One could just imagine those two. I wrote underneath my testimony, which was that the Romans had been endlessly patient with and kind to me, and that civility is as deep here as I’ve ever seen it in the world.

Bought a copy of Walt Whitman in Italian, Folglie D’Erba:.
Demonio o ucello! (esclamo l’anima fanciulla)

Evening: Attempt at writing this interrupted while I get up and stamp around the room, trying to get rid of gigantic leg cramps.

Last night when I arrived at the Piazza del Populo, the thinnest curve of moon shone above Rome, like a goblet so fine it was transparent except for a few drops of liquid at the base, the color of pearl. I’m wondering where I will see it tonight. I know I shall, for the sky all day was blue, clear, absolutely cloudless.

I was making for the Pantheon early in the morning when I was stopped by an Indian girl who wanted to know if I wanted to see the Vatican. I assumed her salutation was portentous, so I said Yes. Our guide was piu bellisimo Simon, every drop of whose considerable charisma was necessary to get us through the ordeal without somebody’s losing his temper. Simon was eloquent, funny (I’ve already mentioned handsome) informative, and wrong only every so often. His mild homophobia (he assured us that all the handsome employees of the Vatican were boyfriends of one cardinal or another) was made funnier because he was practically designed to attract the gay man’s eye. He was so Catholic as to believe the Donation of Constantine was not a forgery. I was the first in the group of what would eventually be 40 or so, and so had a portion of his time that I found at once pleasant and exhausting. A tall blond flame he was, burning us through the crowds and with some dispatch from sight to sight. We paid 45 euros in order to avoid the lines. What is the first thing we did? Got into line, in the cold shadow of the Vatican walls on a cold if sparkling morning. He almost lost us then. There was an explanation, some snafu within, but it doesn’t matter that much when one has paid to avoid the precise thing with which one is subsequently confronted. Anyway, inside we got. I had such a crush I was determined to give Simon the benefit of the doubt, but even I kept muttering within , “It’s been an hour. . . it’s been an hour and a half and I haven’t seen a single work of art.”

Simon hates Dan Brown as much as I do.

Well, we did see the art at last. It was astonishing, overwhelming, a glut, a hecatomb, a tsunami. Hardly a square inch lacked something famous, and there were acres of beautiful things I had never heard of. Does the Pope walk through those galleries, rubbing his hands, glorying that, in terms of the value of masterpieces, he is the richest man that ever was? In one round courtyard the Apollo Belvedere and the Laacoon stare whitely at one another from a crowd of statues as beautiful as themselves. The Sistine Chapel was the last thing we saw as a group. The build-up may have slanted my perceptions a little. The effect was not what I expected, not better or worse, but far more available to the emotions. I expected to be dumbstruck, but it was like seeing an old friend and being relieved that he was everything one expected, all the power and excellence and additionally–it’s hard to explain this– good humor thrown in as well. Not exactly funny, of course, but smiling, God’s bare butt mooning the kneeling Pope being just the sharp end of it. What I noticed about the whole Vatican is its emotional availability. It is not profound, exactly. It is far too busy, far too Italian for profundity. It is immensely beautiful, but manifesting more a superstitious and very rich nona’s imagination than a saint’s.

Now the Basilica itself. One familiar with St. Paul’s can’t be too astounded by St, Peter’s, though the vastness of the latter exceeds any comparison my experienced can make. London and Rome are constantly comparing themselves in my mind, their public buildings, their central churches. It is as if London took its title of world capital from Rome fully conscious of what it was doing, but with less of the Roman verve and humanity. The big British Imperial buildings are arrogant and horrifying, blocky, sometimes defiantly ugly, the way a rich man will do nothing to hide his paunch. The Basilica, however big, is not too big. It redifines enormousness, perhaps, but still allows proportion and availability to have the upper hand. It also does without those grotesque statues of generals and dukes now lost to history which clutter St. Paul’s glittering space. Popes and saints seem somehow more fitted to the occasion, and the sculpture is better anyway. I expected my spirit to be flattened by the Basilica. Instead, my senses were piqued to look at everything, as a man looking at the works of man, delighted.

Gothic is Christianity’s architecture. Baroque is essentially a secular style, fitted for rich burghers and self-satisfied kings, and when Christian spirit is poured into a Baroque shape, created is a hybrid that no one has explained satisfactorily. The Basilica is a holy place of civilization, but not of God. In some ways it is too perfect. A place of the spirit would honor the Creator by being, here and there, a little rough, a little incomplete. Nevertheless, in the light of the descending dove, I prayed until tears stood in my eyes. I will never say what I prayed for.

Where I felt holiness was in the crypt. There lie dozens of dead popes. Paul VI and John Paul I have flowers on their stones. The tomb of that absurd saint-to-be, John Paul II, was surrounded by rosary-tellers, so that one had to edge gingerly by not to disturb their worship. But the tomb of Peter the Apostle exuded sanctity and beauty at once. There I was awed. There my spirit caught up with my eyes at the banquet.

A couple from Arden were in Simon’s group with me. Mondo piccollo.