In his tacit reproach my small intellect delighted,
and loftier thoughts than those of the counter would refresh me for
the rest of the day; and I thankfully returned to the heights and
lengths of wide nature, full of color and roaring waves.
CHAPTER XII
ITALIAN DAYS: I
My first frequent companionship with my father began in Italy, when I
was seven years old. We entered Rome after a long, wet, cold carriage
journey that would have disillusionized a Dore. As we jolted along,
my mother held me in her arms, while I slept as much as I could; and
when I could not, I blessed the patient, weary bosom upon which I lay
exhausted. It was a solemn-faced load of Americans which shook and
shivered into the city of memories that night. In "Monte Beni," as he
preferred to call "The Marble Faun," my father speaks of Rome with
mingled contempt for its discomforts and delighted heartiness for its
outshining fascinations. "The desolation of her ruin" does not prevent
her from being "more intimately our home than even the spot where we
were born." A ruin or a picture could not satisfy his heart, which
accepted no yoke less strong than spiritual power. Rome supplies the
most telling evidence of human failure, because she is the theatre of
the greatest human effort, both in the ranks of Satan and of God; and
she visibly mourns her sins of mistake at the feet of spiritual
victory, Saints Peter and Paul. (As a Catholic, I could hardly win the
respect of the gentle reader if I were so un-American as to fear to
stand by my belief.
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