Finding Margaret Fuller, page 28
As our travels take us north, toward our destination of Rome, I can’t help but fall further under the spell of enchantment. “Italy suits you, Margaret,” Rebecca says to me, noticing my flush of delight. I agree with her. For so many reasons. It’s not only the ambrosial food and the sweeping views—it’s the sunshine, the rolling hills, the way the people speak with passion and abandon. I love it. I feel as though I’ve come at last to soil where I may thrive and flourish.
Things remain joyful like this—that is, until we arrive in Rome in the darkness of evening. Exhausted from a long day of travel, we settle into our rented suite on the Via del Corso. I am eager for bed and a good night’s sleep, eager for the Roman sunrise and the chance to explore the Eternal City in the daylight. But the night brings with it a terror I could never have expected.
I awake to black, blinking against the darkness. Consciousness washes over me, and with it, the realization that I am in my bedroom. In Rome. Our new lodgings on the Via del Corso. Not, as my nightmare had me believing only a moment earlier, on the deck of a ship, the waves roiling beneath me. I had been soaked, the boat pitching, the sea an angry swarm of grasping waves, ready to drag me into its maw.
I shudder as I sit up in bed, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, needing a comforting embrace, but having no one but myself to offer one. Outside, on the street, I hear a shout, then laughter. It sounds as though a crowd has gathered, but only in a celebratory way, nothing threatening. My breath is still ragged but I tell myself that I am safe. I am on land. I can rest. Sleep will mean the start of my adventure in Rome.
* * *
I join Rebecca and Eddie the next morning for breakfast. “How did you sleep?” my friend asks.
I clear my throat. I decide against telling her of my nightmare, the shipwreck, and instead say: “It sounded as though there was quite a crowd gathered in the street last night. Did you hear it, as well?”
“We did,” Rebecca answers, and she slides an Italian newspaper across the table toward me. “I believe this might have something to do with it.”
I look down and read the words splashed across the Italian journal.
SPERANZA!
“Hope,” I say, translating it aloud.
Beneath that: RISORGIMENTO!
“Hope and Resurgence,” I read, taking a sip of my coffee.
Speranza and Risorgimento. I quickly realize, in our first few days in Rome, that those two words have become the rallying cry of our new city. They are all over the newspapers, uttered on the lips of the Romans we see in the streets.
“The resurgence of what, precisely?” Eddie asks me one morning as we sit down to his lessons. I open our atlas to a map of the region around Rome, then I explain: “Since the early part of the century, the Italian people have been divided and separated, purposefully so, by foreign occupiers who wished to prevent a feeling of Italian unity. All so that they might keep their city-states and principalities, their thrones and footholds in this prosperous land.”
Eddie’s face crumples in thought as he looks at the map. I go on. “You see, the Spanish have their Bourbon king on the throne in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. The Austrians hold tight to their vast territories in the north. The House of Savoy holds Piedmont and Sardinia. Even where we are, this area around Rome in the Papal States, is ruled as a miniature kingdom unto itself, and our ruler is the pope.”
Eddie flashes me a thoughtful look. “So why now all this Speranza, hope, in Rome?”
“Because we have a new pope. And with that new leadership comes new hope. A resurgence of hope. You see, the unyielding Pope Gregory XVI has gone to meet his maker, and now the Romans have Pope Pius IX. He is known affectionately by his people as Pio Nono.”
“Why do the Romans love this Pio Nono?” my pupil asks. “What if he’s as tough as the other one?”
“That’s a great question. I think they have good reason to hope. In just his earliest days in the Vatican, Pio Nono has shown himself to be a man of kindness, setting free many prisoners.”
“Why were they in prison?”
“They were men and women who had called for Italian unification, who had done nothing more than demand an end to foreign despots and occupying armies.”
“Oh. Well, then, that’s good.”
“I agree, my dear. And Pio Nono has even given hints that he might be willing to allow a constitution, or an elected governing body that comes from the people.” A thought occurs to me. “Do you remember when we saw that Italian gentleman give a speech while we were in London?”
Eddie scrunches his face. “You mean Signore Mazzini?”
“Precisely, my dear boy. Well, perhaps now Giuseppe Mazzini might even be able to return from his London exile, to live among his own people once more. The people who love him and want him for their leader.”
Eddie nods, absorbing all of this, and I see the wheels of his bright mind turning in thought. A moment later, his features perking up, he looks at me and says: “Miss Fuller, I can see why the Romans have this Speranza.”
* * *
—
And I see it, as well. I see it later that same morning, when Rebecca, Eddie, and I set out on foot to explore. We begin by climbing the Spanish Steps. We make our way toward the Villa Borghese, where Cardinal Borghese once built himself one of the grandest estates in all of Rome, transforming his vineyards into an enchanting sprawl of gardens, temples, lakes, and grottoes. We stroll happily through the tree-lined lanes, little Eddie running ahead, giggling in peals of giddy ecstasy as he glimpses the nude statues.
“I suppose it’s something we shall have to adapt to.” Rebecca sighs. She, who declined the opportunity to see Chopin in concert because of his unwed state. Here, in this city, every statue is nude.
“We shall embrace it as part of the Roman experience,” I say, though I’ll admit, it’s easier said than accomplished.
Next, Rebecca is eager to see Michelangelo’s Moses statue, so we trek together to the Basilica di San Pietro and gawk before the behemoth of smooth white marble. After a break for gelato, we make the short walk to the Colosseum. By that point, little Eddie’s legs are tired and Rebecca herself is eager to rest. But I myself feel enlivened. Not only do I wish to keep walking, I wish to keep seeing and experiencing.
Most of all I wish to see the statue of Saint Teresa of Avila, the Bernini masterpiece of the female saint in the throes of ecstasy. It’s in the Church of Santa Maria della Vittoria. Since we have to walk north to return to our rented rooms, it’s not far out of the way. And in fact, I suspect it might be the sort of outing I would prefer to undertake alone, without the chaste bashfulness of Rebecca or the flighty distractions of little Eddie. “You go on. I’m not far behind,” I tell my companions. “I wish to visit one more church.”
Rebecca’s eyes widen. “You don’t mind going alone?”
“Not at all,” I say. “You forget that I’ve lived alone in Boston and New York.”
“But this is Rome.”
“And I speak Italian.” I suspect that perhaps it’s Rebecca who does not wish to walk alone with Eddie. But I give her a bolstering nod. “I’ll meet you back in our rooms.”
I make my own way, arriving half an hour later and stepping out of the warm Roman sunshine into the cool, quiet church. Inside it’s a feast of marble and gold. Frescoes soar overhead, with chubby angels flying about as I pass the remains of dead saints. I pause for several minutes to admire the painting of the great patriarch Joseph, from the Old Testament.
And then, when I behold the object of my visit, I come to a standstill, overwhelmed. Santa Teresa is forged in white marble and situated up high, elevated over me in a niche in the wall. She leans back, reclining, her face twisted in a look of rapturous ecstasy, while an angel pierces her with a golden spear of celestial light.
Saint Teresa was known for her mystical experiences of God’s grace, her transportive visions that set her body aglow. But this work feels overpowering to me in ways I had not even imagined. Teresa appears like a woman in the throes of a spiritual experience, to be sure. And yet, there’s also something undeniably sensual about her. As if she’s a woman in thrall to a great physical ecstasy, as well.
How interesting, I note, that this city is filled with nude and erotic statues, and yet this work strikes me as the most sensual, the most seductively inviting, seething with passion. And it’s housed here, in a church dedicated to Mary, the mother of God and perpetual virgin. As I stare up at Teresa, I notice how my breath has become shallow and quick. I can feel that I’m flushed. I notice the lovely ache that gnaws somewhere deep within.
That’s when I turn, and nearly bump into the gentleman behind me. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Mi scusi,” I say, fumbling to recall my Italian, so flustered am I, so overwhelmed by the whorl of feelings and passions that this statue has stirred within me. I look up into the man’s face and am caught completely off guard by the kind, large, brown eyes. I freeze. He smiles at me. I smile back. Then I remember myself, and I lower my gaze. “Mi scusi,” I repeat, turning to leave the church. Not glancing backward, and yet knowing that the man watches me.
I walk at a brisk pace back toward the Springs and the Via del Corso. I remind myself to pull in deep, steadying breaths as I go. Yes, it was good that Rebecca did not join me to view this statue. Rome is stirring feelings and longings within me that are entirely new and even, at times, overwhelming. Perhaps even a bit dangerous. Because I can’t help but wonder: Will these longings soon be too powerful for me to control?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Rome
Roman passion and pageantry are on full display during Holy Week, the days leading up to Easter. The Springs and I join the throngs of thousands gathering at Saint Peter’s for Holy Thursday, in a service celebrating the night of Jesus Christ’s Last Supper with his disciples. It’s one of the holiest gatherings and we are here in the holiest of places. Rome is flooded by thousands, many of whom have traveled even farther than we have. They speak all languages, they wear silks and satins in every variety of color.
We move as if carried by a sea, streaming from the colonnaded court into the sacred inner sanctum of the Sistine Chapel. The musical notes of vespers soar around us. After a wait that whirrs with anticipation and excitement, in comes the pope, Pio Nono, carried aloft by his men on his pontiff’s chair. Silk drapes over his head like a canopy, his face turned out in a beatific smile. He’s a monarch of celestial and earthly power, and the people love him. The pilgrims form a line following after him, calling out to him, reaching up for him.
We follow Pio Nono’s floating chair out. Many of the worshippers carry candles, and we move now like a river of flames. I am swept up in it all, in listening to the music, admiring the rich art that swirls all around. I am so engrossed that I don’t even notice as I somehow become separated from Rebecca and her family.
That is, until I am outside once more, back in the darkened piazza, where even more people are gathered now. Some women are weeping, others are on their knees, overcome by the moment, prostrating themselves before the retreating figure of the pope. “Rebecca?” But as quickly as I cry out for her, my voice is swallowed, absorbed, a drop of water in the vast ocean of voices all around.
An old woman with a black veil approaches. “What’s the problem?”
I shake my head with a quick smile, declining what I believe is her offer of assistance.
“Signorina!” A trio of men—they appear younger than me—come close. Too close.
“Scusi.” I stride off. Next I try to approach a small cluster of nuns, but they are consumed in prayer.
That’s when I hear a deep, quiet voice. “Pardon me, my lady?” I turn and look into a pair of dark eyes, almond shaped and full of expression. The tall gentleman asks: “May I help you?”
“Grazie, no…” I’m about to decline, just as I’ve done with the other men who have foisted their attention on me, but something gives me pause. “Wait,” I say. I narrow my eyes, raise my hand. “You’re—it’s you. I’ve seen you before.” It dawns on me. “You’re the gentleman from yesterday, at Santa Maria’s. The statue of Santa Teresa?”
“I thought that might be you,” the man replies, an easy, earnest smile brightening his handsome features. It’s so loud in the square that he takes one step closer, so that I can hear him speak, but his posture is entirely formal, respectful, as he says, “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am the Marchese Giovanni Angelo Ossoli.”
Marchese? He’s a count, an Italian nobleman.
I pull back my shoulders. “It is nice to meet you. I am Margaret Fuller.” I flinch; it sounds so plain. I have no aristocratic title, no endless series of florid Italian syllables to my name.
But his smile is so sincere, so unaffected and warm, that my worries seep away as he says: “You looked like you might be in need of assistance, Signorina Fuller.”
I let out my breath, scanning the teeming piazza. Still no sign of Rebecca. “Indeed, I think I may be.”
“I can see farther.” He gestures to show me he’s taller, which is a point so obvious that it makes me laugh. He’s not only tall but well built, his slender physique turned out in an elegant suit complete with walking stick and hat. With his rich mahogany hair and olive-toned features, he looks every bit the Italian nobleman.
We search for a quarter of an hour, the count and I, but we catch no sight of the Springs. “I am sorry to say it, but I do not believe you will be able to secure a carriage at this time, not with—” Marchese Ossoli gestures at the swarm of people still filling the square, and I know he’s right. Any coaches would have been waved immediately.
“It’s no matter,” I say, attempting a bright tone. “I can walk. I’ve walked all over this city.”
“Not alone, surely?”
“You saw me yesterday at Santa Maria. I was alone then.”
Marchese Ossoli’s features crease in a look of concern. “But not at night, Signorina Fuller.”
He must see my self-assurance wobble, because he hastens to add: “You shall not be alone tonight.” The count offers me his arm. “Please, signorina, may I escort you safely?”
I shift on my feet, leaving his outstretched arm dangling. “It’s really not necessary, sir.”
“But of course it is. Have you not heard of Italian chivalry?”
I remain in my spot, unmoving. The count tips his head to one side. “If you do not allow me, signorina, I will not sleep a wink tonight over concern for you. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you? Not right before Easter. Please, allow me to see you safely home. Home is…?”
“Via del Corso,” I reply. “Where I am staying with my friends.”
“Then we must get you back, as I am sure they are eagerly awaiting your return.”
“Oh, very well,” I say, and I take his arm. We set off together, wading through the crowd, which remains thick all the way through the piazza and out onto the street. Marchese Ossoli guides us toward the Tiber River.
I can feel my heartbeat, hastened by this walk on the arm of a stranger in a new city. But Marchese Ossoli appears entirely at ease. Happy for this evening jaunt. Even striking up conversation as he asks: “Well, then, Signorina Fuller, what brings you to Rome?”
“Work,” I answer. I see from the look he throws me that he’s intrigued. “I’m writing for a New York newspaper. And also tutoring. Hence the family with whom I travel.”
“New York,” he says, his deep voice tinged with what sounds like awe.
“Have you been?” I ask, throwing him a sideways look.
“No. I’ve barely left Rome.”
We approach the Ponte Sant’Angelo, that ancient marble crossing over the Tiber, which is lit up with torchlight. Arches curl beneath us, carved angels hover above us, and the river slips by, mirroring a thousand glimmers of torch- and starlight. I pause, taking it all in. After a moment, I speak: “I really cannot imagine ever becoming accustomed to this.”
Marchese Ossoli nods, looking out appreciatively over the Roman night. “As someone who has been here my whole life, I can tell you: you don’t.”
“You were born in Rome?”
“Like my father, and his father, and his father.”
I throw him a playful look. “Does your family go all the way back to the she-wolf?”
His dark lashes flutter as he smiles. “Ah, yes, she was my great-great-great-great-grandmother. Or something like that.”
We laugh at this, and I glance back out over the Tiber River. I notice that my body feels less tense. Marchese Ossoli gives me no reason to be on edge. I speak: “You know what Goethe said of Rome?”
He arcs an eyebrow, throwing me a questioning look. I can see he has no idea.
“ ‘Only in Rome,’ ” I say, “ ‘can one prepare oneself for Rome.’ ”
He listens to my words, taking them in. “I don’t know Goethe,” he says. “But I know Rome. My family, the Ossoli family, has been here for centuries. My older brother is in the Pope’s Guard.” He says all of this with an earnest, touching trace of pride, not a whiff of arrogance or conceit.
“And what do you do?” I ask.
“I’m a sergeant in the Civic Guard here in Rome.”
I tap the railing with my hands. “And your parents?”
“My father serves in the pope’s administration.”
“How wonderful,” I say. “I admire Pio Nono tremendously.” But then I catch myself. Marchese Ossoli is an aristocrat; perhaps his politics are not for reform.
But his face is alight. “Yes,” he agrees. So then, he shares my fondness for Pio Nono.
“And your mother?” I ask.
“She is…” His words taper, his eyes glide upward. “She was always an angel. And now she is with the angels.”
