The Italians | Page 7

In his hands--which are raised almost level with his face, and

reverently covered by his vestments--he bears a gemmed vessel
containing the Host, to be laid by-and-by on the altar of the Holy
Countenance. All the church-bells are now ringing furiously. Cannons
fire, and military bands drown the low hum of the chanting. Every head
is uncovered--many, specially women, are prostrate on the stones.
Arrived at the basilica of San Frediano, the procession halts under the
Byzantine mosaic on a gold ground, over the entrance. The entire
chapter is assembled before the open doors. They kneel before the
archbishop carrying the Host. Again there is a halt before the snowy
façade of the church of San Michele, pillared to the summit with
slender columns of Carrara marble--on the topmost pinnacle a colossal
statue of the archangel, in golden bronze, the outstretched wings
glistening against the turquoise sky. Here the same ceremonies are
repeated as at the church of San Frediano. The archbishop halts, the
chanting ceases, the Host is elevated, the assembled priests adore it,
kneeling without the portal.
It is one o'clock before the archbishop is enthroned within the cathedral.
The chapter, robed in red and purple, are ranged behind him in the
tribune at the back of the high altar, the grand old frescoes hovering
over them. The secular dignitaries are seated on benches below the
altar-steps. Palchi (boxes), on either side of the nave, are filled with
Lucchese ladies, dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned, backed by the
crimson draperies with which the nave is dressed.
A soft fluttering of fans agitates feathers, lace, and ribbons. Fumes of
incense mix with the scent of strong perfumes. Not the smallest
attention is paid by the ladies to the mass which is celebrating at the
high altar and the altar of the Holy Countenance. Their jeweled hands
hold no missal, their knees are unbent, their lips utter no prayer. Instead,
there are bright glances from lustrous eyes, and whispered words to
favored golden youths (without religion, of course--what has a golden
youth to do with religion?) who have insinuated themselves within the
ladies seats, or lean over, gazing at them with upturned faces.
Peal after peal of musical thunder rolls from the double organs. It is
caught up by the two orchestras placed in gilt galleries on either side of

the nave. A vocal chorus on this side responds to exquisite voices on
that. Now a flute warbles a luscious solo, then a flageolet. A grand
barytone bursts forth, followed by a tenor soft as the notes of a
nightingale, accompanied by a boy on the violin. Then there is the
crash of many hundred voices, with the muffled roar of two organs. It is
the Gloria in Excelsis. As the music rolls down the pillared nave out
into the crowded piazza, where it dies away in harmonious murmurs, an
iron cresset, suspended from the vaulted ceiling of the nave, filled with
a bundle of flax, is fired. The flax blazes for a moment, then passes
away in a shower of glittering sparks that glitter upon the inlaid floor.
Sic transit gloria mundi is the motto. (Now the lighting of this flax is a
special privilege accorded to the Archbishop of Lucca by the pope, and
jealously guarded by him.)
CHAPTER III.
THE THREE WITCHES.
Many carriages wait outside the cathedral, in the shade near the
fountain. The fountain--gushing upward joyously in the beaming
sunshine out of a red-marble basin--is just beyond the atrium, and
visible through the arches on that side. Beyond the fountain,
terminating the piazza, there is a high wall. This wall supports a broad
marble terrace, with heavy balustrades, extending from the back of a
mediaeval palace. Over the wall green vine-branches trail, sweeping the
pavement, like ringlets that have fallen out of curl. This wall and
terrace communicate with the church of San Giovanni, an ancient
Lombard basilica on that side. Under the shadow of the heavy roof
some girls are trying to waltz to the sacred music from the cathedral.
After a few turns they find it difficult, and leave off. The men in livery,
waiting along with the carriages, laugh at them lazily. The girls retreat,
and group themselves on the steps of a deeply-arched doorway with a
bass-relief of the Virgin and angels, leading into the church, and talk in
low voices.
A ragged boy from the Garfagnana, with a tray of plaster heads of
Victor Emmanuel and Garibaldi, has put down his wares, and is turning

wheels upon the pavement, before the servants, for a penny. An old
man pulls out from under his cloak a dancing dog, with crimson collar
and bells, and collects a little crowd under the atrium of the cathedral.
A soldier, touched with compassion, takes a crust from his pocket to