Selected Writings (Dario, Ruben) (59 page)

“But as is only natural, for exquisite beauty, richness, and detail, nothing compared with the room that was the caliph’s bed-chamber. The decorations upon the walls were formed of gold, pearls, and other precious stones, and in several places, as was the custom, Koranic hallelujahs were inscribed. Into a magnificent alabaster fountain, set in the center of the chamber, several gold animals poured forth water from their mouths, and in the fountain’s center swam a swan of that same metal. Above the bowl hung a pearl of extraordinary price, which had been presented to the caliph by the emperor Leon, of Constantinople. The alcove that contained the bed of the caliph’s favorite was closed off by a carved screen covered with hammered gold and iron, and studded with precious stones, and in the midst of the splendor cast by the oil lamps of a hundred pendant chandeliers, there flowed a stream of mercury, whose liquid silver fell into a lovely basin of alabaster.

“Above the main door of the alcázar stood a statue of the lovely slave-girl, to the indignation of the most austere Muslims, who censured the caliph’s impiety, for in contempt of the express teaching of the Qur’an he had dared portray the human figure. The gardens surrounding the palace were in keeping with the rest in splendor and beauty, for the most fertile fantasy had lavished upon them all things that might please the senses. Woods of myrtles and laurels were mixed with olive trees, whose verdure was reflected in the crystalline waters of the pools; rare animals wandered through gardens designed for that purpose, and birds of lovely plumage and pleasing song animated the enchanting mansion.” As we suspend this description, can my reader not hear the voice of Dinarzad: “Sister, will you tell one of those lovely stories that you know?” Of those glorious mansions, there remains no more today than the most superb of crowned heads, and they can only be contemplated, with the aid of the imagination, in the famous narrations that I have quoted, and which have been brought into the light, and art, of modern times by the wise and admirable talent of Dr. Mardrus.
⁹⁹

Wandering from one point to another, and becoming lost sometimes in the labyrinth of these Oriental streets, I have come upon fountains, ruins, a curious monument to the angel Gabriel (who, according to legend, has freed the city time and again from plagues, storms, and calamities), and at last I found the only thing that truly attracts foreigners: the mosque. In this case, as in others, there is no reason at all to describe it, as there are hundreds of guide books and dozens of travel narratives that save me that effort. Suffice it to say that this building of faith overwhelmed me, as have so many buildings of war and love left by the Arabs in their beloved Al-Andalus, and that I joined my voice to the thousand others that have deplored the religious vandalism of the Catholics who believed it was right to demolish works of art and uglify the place of Allah in order to better worship Jesus Christ.

The forest of columns, the profusion of arches make one think of what this place might be without the dark doors, with natural light pouring in. A vast petrified palm grove, no doubt. And thank goodness there are still some of the architectural and mosaic splendors, like that prodigious
mihrab,
or Muslim chapel, which is the admiration of those who know about such things. Although in the Spanish intruders’ construction there is remarkable work, such as the choir, the visitor’s only thoughts must be for the people of Islam, who were able to build such glorious tabernacles to prayer. When one enters, one is seized with the desire to remove one’s shoes and put on a pair of slippers and murmur, “Only Allah is great.”

[TRAVELS IN ITALY]

September 11, 1900

 

From the bustle of the Paris Exposition, under that sad gray sky that serves as a canopy for so much joy, I move on to this land of glory that smiles under an azure dome of purest and most pleasant sky. I am in Italy, and my lips murmur a prayer similar in fervor to that formulated by the serene, free mind of harmonious Renan before the Acropolis. A prayer most very like in fervor, indeed—for to my spirit Italy has been an innate adoration. In its very name there is so much light and melody that it seems to me that if the lyre were not called lyre it might be called, for reasons both euphonic and platonic,
Italy.
Here one instantly recognizes the ancient vestiges of Apollo. Here, for good reason, pilgrims from the four corners of the earth have come in search of beauty. Here they have found so much: the sweet spiritual peace that issues from contact with things consecrated by the divinity of understanding; the vision of soft landscapes, incomparable firmaments, magical dawns and enchanting sunsets, through which a rich and loving Nature is revealed; the hospitality of a lively race, a people who love the singing and dancing that they have inherited from primitive, poetic beings who communicated with the Numens; and marbles divine in loveliness, bronzes proud in their eternity, paintings in which perfection has touched human effort, works of art which preserve legendary figures, signs of greatness, those simulacra that give to the artist exiled today among ancient fragrances, memories of yesterday, those alphas that begin the mysterious alphabet in which the omegas of the future are hidden. Blessed for the poet is this fecund and fecundating land in which Tityrus
¹⁰⁰
played so his goats might dance. Here, oh Petrarch, the doves of your sonnets still fly. Here, beloved old Horace, the vine you planted still grows; here, egregious celebrants of Latin love, your roses still bloom, as in days of old, and your games and kisses are played and kissed again. Here, Lamartine, the Graziellas still laugh and cry; here, Byron, Shelley, Keats, the laurels speak of you still; here, old Ruskin, the seven lamps are still lighted; and here, huge Dante, your somber, colossal, imperious figure, your occult demiurgic force still towers over the echoing woods, the beings and things of this land, with the majesty of an immense pine among whose branches one hears the oracular voice of a god. [. . . . ]

October 3, 1900

 

The arid landscape of the Roman Agro behind me, I arrive in Rome at dusk. The first impression is of a sad, neglected, ugly city, but all that is erased by the influence of the sacred soil, the evidence of a glorious land. In the trip from the station to the hotel, through the windows of the omnibus appear, before my yearning eyes, one after another monumental vision that I recognize: the baths in ruins, the column of Marcus Aurelius. My spirit teeming with thoughts and memories, I sleep in a room in a hotel on the Piazza Colonna which, perhaps out of an excess of archaeological zeal, makes its customers light their chambers with simple candles. In my opinion, any antique candelabra someone had dug up, or even a wondrous chandelier, would have served better.

In the morning, a look at the city. . . . A long narrow street, filled with trade, in the evening filled with people strolling along, and from time to time the imposing façade of a palazzo whose name is a page from history. I warn you: the sin of wanting to turn Rome into a modern metropolis could not be committed without spoiling the grandeur of this Catholic capital, but since Rome is—whatever you might want to say about it—the Pope’s city, not the King’s, no governmental decrees will ever fully prevail against it.

And this
is
the Pope’s city. What has been left to it, down through the centuries, by religious events, the long domination by the pontiffs, and an ecumenical worship that converges on that place where Christ set his Rock, cannot be destroyed by political events or interests of a more partial nature. Through the Porta Pia little entered and nothing left.

While I make my way toward the Piazza Venecia, where I will take the tram that will take me to St. Paul’s,
¹⁰¹
I am engulfed by a cosmopolitan army, its insignias on its breast and its guidebooks in its hand. People speak here in German, over there in Hungarian, farther on in English, Spanish, French, the dialects of Italy—every imaginable language. They are the members of various pilgrim groups who have come this Jubilee Year. They trample one another, jostle one another, push and shove one another to get a place on the streetcars. I see sad and ridiculous scenes. Clusters of humanity scatter as one of the vehicles pulls away. An old woman with a singularly odd cap clutches at the skirts of an obese priest, and both tumble to the paving stones. Since the coachmen are all on strike, this struggle is continual, though one constantly sees covered wagons passing with cargoes of pilgrims. Old folk, men of various ages, children, nannies with babies, friars of every feather, priests of every vintage have poured in from every corner of the globe. They come here to visit sanctuaries, kiss stones, admire temples, and, more than anything, see a little ivory-colored old gentleman (barely able to raise his almost hundred-year-old right hand) sketch in the air, in the immense basilica, the sign of a papal blessing.

And all of them bring gold, whether much or little, which will remain in the Holy City, in the treasuries of the Vicar of Christ and King of Rome—contributions from the greater part of humanity. Oh, the de Savoies
¹⁰²
know very well that that mysterious white dove must be kept locked up tight in his colossal marble and gold cage!

At the door of St. Paul’s, the new basilica, I see the same mob scenes repeated. Everyone shoves to get in first, as though free samples of something were being passed out inside and they had to get in before closing time. I, too, make a lever of my elbows and shoulders, and all attentive—
Beware of pickpockets!
—I am in! Enormous basilica, filled with luxury and happy spirit. Gold, mosaics, columns of majestic elegance: wide, bright naves. These magnificent things keep prayer a bit at arm’s length, of course, and one cannot help but think of an orchestra about to launch into a waltz, or the foyer of a stupendous café-concert hall. Teeming throngs on the polished floor tiles, admiring, calculating, fixing their eyes on the rich ceiling-work or the pope’s medallions and then unfixing them to stand in awe before the altars, the craftsmanship, the marmoreal portraits. And the universal question: I wonder how much all this cost? But the answer is in their pocket. The priests, shepherds to their various groups of pilgrims, lead their flocks here and there, from one point of interest to another, having some of them pray, some read from guidebooks; some of the cicerones lecture, some do not.

I leave St. Paul’s with another spirit than that with which I entered. . . . St. Paul’s is the fin de siècle cathedral, where all that is lacking is the note of
liberty
in art. When, I wonder, shall we have the “modern style” basilica? St. Paul’s is the club-church, the tea-room church, the five-o’clock cocktail church. It is the cathedral of worldly religiosity, where one goes to flirt. An imposing place, indeed. Oh, the serene, severe religious spirit of old cathedrals, made for people of faith in times of piety and fear of God—and how far from these pompous Alhambras, imperial Empires, Casinos to Our Lord! And note that all this corresponds fully to the policies of the Vatican Chancellory—tourism to Lourdes, that sort of thing. Zola was largely right, and one must come here to see it.

To the sound of water falling in the fountains, I enter the vast hemicycle of columns and approach the basilica of basilicas [St. Peter’s], which rises gigantically, heavily. It looked very large; as I approach it, it looks even larger. And as I penetrate it and lift my eyes toward the apse, its enormousness presents itself in all its reality. It is a building made for nations. The waves of visitors, which increase at every moment, appear to be no more than small groups moving here and there. Under the cupola, light falls in broad golden streams. The grand baldacchino with its serpentine columns stands magnificently; the railing around the tomb of St. Peter, with its lamps lighted, attracts a crowd of the curious. To one side, the bronze Jupiter, the black St. Peter, with its famous toe, worn away by kisses, receives the endless homage of the groups, who follow one another in infinite procession. The tombs of the popes, with their various chapels and their statues, the fabrics, the magnificent decorations give the sensation of a museum. This sensation increases when one sees visitors everywhere with little opera-glasses, notebooks, manuals, and English, French, and Italian guidebooks. And one word vibrates within you:
Renaissance.
From the black St. Peter to the nightshirt-clad statues, equivocal angels, symbolic virtues, figures made by pagan artists for paganizing popes, everything speaks of that admirable time in which the gods made a pact with Jesus Christ. It was there, then, that faith began to wither and die, the soul to soar ever lower in its ascetic flights.

I love this magnificence, but it does not make me feel, sense the presence of the doctor of humility. . . . Under the dome that rains down light, I feel the Bramantes, the Michelangelos. This pomp is Oriental, it is Solomonic. (Solomon, after all, was more a vizier than a priest.) The white figures of the virtues incite one to caresses more than to prayers, and the cherubs are more Olympian than paradisal. The colored marbles, the white marbles, the onyxes, the agates, the gold, the silver, the gold, the bronze, the gold, and even the crimson hangings—everything speaks of the pride of the earth, the glory of the senses, Caesarean pleasures, a delight in the things of this world. High up there, a phrase:
Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam.
¹⁰³
. . .

 

October 7, 1900

 

The Pincio, a path that curls up, around, to the summit of a hill. From a platform there, one has a view of almost all of Rome. Cupolas everywhere, though I cannot be inspired to count the three hundred that one particular traveler, the admirable and exuberant Castelar, recorded. The pathway is not overly crowded at this season; much of Roman society is summering. There are a few carriages, a very few strollers, and, on the benches, the clients that discover the shady spots and parks and tree-lined walks everywhere one goes: the solitary gentleman reading or lost in meditation, the lady dressed in black, perhaps with a melancholy little girl beside her, and, in certain shady corners, under the affectionate trees, children laughing and playing. But here in Rome there is also the young seminarian, the couple of religious students, the venerable figure of an old priest, and, inside his carriage, the silhouette of some Eminence. And then there is the amiable lady who, with more or less luck, is in search of admirers—a lady as distant from the triumphant Parisian “mistress” as she is from her predecessor, the Roman courtesan.