Saracinesca
Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion), 1854-1909
English
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SARACINESCA
BY F. MARION CRAWFORD
AUTHOR OF 'MR. ISAACS,' 'DR. CLAUDIUS,' 'A ROMAN SINGER,' 'ZOROASTER,'
'A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH,' ETC.
1887
NOTE
It was at first feared that the name Saracinesca, as it is now
printed, might be attached to an unused title in the possession of a
Roman house. The name was therefore printed with an additional
consonant--Sarracinesca--in the pages of 'Blackwood's Magazine.'
After careful inquiry, the original spelling is now restored.
SARACINESCA.
CHAPTER I.
In the year 1865 Rome was still in a great measure its old self. It had
not then acquired that modern air which is now beginning to pervade it.
The Corso had not been widened and whitewashed; the Villa Aldobrandini
had not been cut through to make the Via Nazionale; the south wing of the
Palazzo Colonna still looked upon a narrow lane through which men
hesitated to pass after dark; the Tiber's course had not then been
corrected below the Farnesina; the Farnesina itself was but just under
repair; the iron bridge at the Ripetta was not dreamed of; and the Prati
di Castello were still, as their name implies, a series of waste meadows.
At the southern extremity of the city, the space between the fountain of
Moses and the newly erected railway station, running past the Baths of
Diocletian, was still an exercising-ground for the French cavalry. Even
the people in the streets then presented an appearance very different
from that which is now observed by the visitors and foreigners who come
to Rome in the winter. French dragoons and hussars, French infantry and
French officers, were everywhere to be seen in great numbers, mingled
with a goodly sprinkling of the Papal Zouaves, whose grey Turco uniforms
with bright red facings, red sashes, and short yellow gaiters, gave
colour to any crowd. A fine corps of men they were, too; counting
hundreds of gentlemen in their ranks, and officered by some of the best
blood in France and Austria. In those days also were to be seen the great
coaches of the cardinals, with their gorgeous footmen and magnificent
black horses, the huge red umbrellas lying upon the top, while from the
open windows the stately princes of the Church from time to time returned
the salutations of the pedestrians in the street. And often in the
afternoon there was heard the tramp of horse as a detachment of the noble
guards trotted down the Corso on their great chargers, escorting the holy
Father himself, while all who met him dropped upon one knee and uncovered
their heads to receive the benediction of the mild-eyed old man with the
beautiful features, the head of Church and State. Many a time, too,
Pius IX. would descend from his coach and walk upon the Pincio, all
clothed in white, stopping sometimes to talk with those who accompanied
him, or to lay his gentle hand on the fair curls of some little English
child that paused from its play in awe and admiration as the Pope went
by. For he loved children well, and most of all, children with golden
hair--angels, not Angles, as Gregory said.
As for the fashions of those days, it is probable that most of us would
suffer severe penalties rather than return to them, beautiful as they
then appeared to us by contrast with the exaggerated crinoline and
flower-garden bonnet, which had given way to the somewhat milder form of
hoop-skirt madness, but had not yet flown to the opposite extreme in the
invention of the close-fitting _princesse_ garments of 1868. But, to each
other, people looked then as they look now. Fashion in dress, concerning
which nine-tenths of society gives itself so much trouble, appears to
exercise less influence upon men and women in their relations towards
each other than does any other product of human ingenuity. Provided every
one is in the fashion, everything goes on in the age of high heels and
gowns tied back precisely as it did five-and-twenty years ago, when
people wore flat shoes, and when gloves with three buttons had not been
dreamed of--when a woman of most moderate dimensions occupied three or
four square yards of space upon a ball-room floor, and men wore peg-top
trousers. Human beings since the days of Adam seem to have retired like
caterpillars into cocoons of dress, expecting constantly the wondrous
hour when they shall emerge from their self-woven prison in the garb of
the angelic butterfly, having entered into the chrysalis state as mere
human grubs. But though they both toil and spin at their garments, and
vie with Solomon in his glory to outshine the lily of the field, the
humanity of the grub shows no signs of developing either in character or
appearance in the direction of anything particularly angelic.
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