broad landing. The more rigid climbers went along this landing on
their knees, as well as up the stairs; and the figures they cut, in
their shuffling progress over the level surface, no description can
paint. Then, to see them watch their opportunity from the porch,
and cut in where there was a place next the wall! And to see one
man with an umbrella (brought on purpose, for it was a fine day)
hoisting himself, unlawfully, from stair to stair! And to observe
a demure lady of fifty-five or so, looking back, every now and
then, to assure herself that her legs were properly disposed!
There were such odd differences in the speed of different people,
too. Some got on as if they were doing a match against time;
others stopped to say a prayer on every step. This man touched
every stair with his forehead, and kissed it; that man scratched
his head all the way. The boys got on brilliantly, and were up and
down again before the old lady had accomplished her half-dozen
stairs. But most of the penitents came down, very sprightly and
fresh, as having done a real good substantial deed which it would
take a good deal of sin to counterbalance; and the old gentleman in
the watch-box was down upon them with his canister while they were
in this humour, I promise you.
As if such a progress were not in its nature inevitably droll
enough, there lay, on the top of the stairs, a wooden figure on a
crucifix, resting on a sort of great iron saucer: so rickety and
unsteady, that whenever an enthusiastic person kissed the figure,
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Dickens, Charles – Pictures From Italy
with more than usual devotion, or threw a coin into the saucer,
with more than common readiness (for it served in this respect as a
second or supplementary canister), it gave a great leap and rattle,
and nearly shook the attendant lamp out: horribly frightening the
people further down, and throwing the guilty party into unspeakable
embarrassment.
On Easter Sunday, as well as on the preceding Thursday, the Pope
bestows his benediction on the people, from the balcony in front of
St. Peter’s. This Easter Sunday was a day so bright and blue: so
cloudless, balmy, wonderfully bright: that all the previous bad
weather vanished from the recollection in a moment. I had seen the
Thursday’s Benediction dropping damply on some hundreds of
umbrellas, but there was not a sparkle then, in all the hundred
fountains of Rome – such fountains as they are! – and on this
Sunday morning they were running diamonds. The miles of miserable
streets through which we drove (compelled to a certain course by
the Pope’s dragoons: the Roman police on such occasions) were so
full of colour, that nothing in them was capable of wearing a faded
aspect. The common people came out in their gayest dresses; the
richer people in their smartest vehicles; Cardinals rattled to the
church of the Poor Fishermen in their state carriages; shabby
magnificence flaunted its thread-bare liveries and tarnished cocked
hats, in the sun; and every coach in Rome was put in requisition
for the Great Piazza of St. Peter’s.
One hundred and fifty thousand people were there at least! Yet
there was ample room. How many carriages were there, I don’t know;
yet there was room for them too, and to spare. The great steps of
the church were densely crowded. There were many of the Contadini,
from Albano (who delight in red), in that part of the square, and
the mingling of bright colours in the crowd was beautiful. Below
the steps the troops were ranged. In the magnificent proportions
of the place they looked like a bed of flowers. Sulky Romans,
lively peasants from the neighbouring country, groups of pilgrims
from distant parts of Italy, sight-seeing foreigners of all
nations, made a murmur in the clear air, like so many insects; and
high above them all, plashing and bubbling, and making rainbow
colours in the light, the two delicious fountains welled and
tumbled bountifully.
A kind of bright carpet was hung over the front of the balcony; and
the sides of the great window were bedecked with crimson drapery.