The Innocents Abroad

Chapter 18

All day long we sped through a mountainous country whose peaks were

bright with sunshine, whose hillsides were dotted with pretty villas

sitting in the midst of gardens and shrubbery, and whose deep ravines

were cool and shady and looked ever so inviting from where we and the

birds were winging our flight through the sultry upper air.

We had plenty of chilly tunnels wherein to check our perspiration,

though. We timed one of them. We were twenty minutes passing through

it, going at the rate of thirty to thirty-five miles an hour.

Beyond Alessandria we passed the battle-field of Marengo.

Toward dusk we drew near Milan and caught glimpses of the city and the

blue mountain peaks beyond. But we were not caring for these things

--they did not interest us in the least. We were in a fever of impatience;

we were dying to see the renowned cathedral! We watched--in this

direction and that--all around--everywhere. We needed no one to point it

out--we did not wish any one to point it out--we would recognize it even

in the desert of the great Sahara.

At last, a forest of graceful needles, shimmering in the amber sunlight,

rose slowly above the pygmy housetops, as one sometimes sees, in the far

horizon, a gilded and pinnacled mass of cloud lift itself above the waste

of waves, at sea,--the Cathedral! We knew it in a moment.

Half of that night, and all of the next day, this architectural autocrat

was our sole object of interest.

What a wonder it is! So grand, so solemn, so vast! And yet so delicate,

so airy, so graceful! A very world of solid weight, and yet it seems in

the soft moonlight only a fairy delusion of frost-work that might vanish

with a breath! How sharply its pinnacled angles and its wilderness of

spires were cut against the sky, and how richly their shadows fell upon

its snowy roof! It was a vision!--a miracle!--an anthem sung in stone, a

poem wrought in marble!

Howsoever you look at the great cathedral, it is noble, it is beautiful!

Wherever you stand in Milan or within seven miles of Milan, it is visible

and when it is visible, no other object can chain your whole attention.

Leave your eyes unfettered by your will but a single instant and they

will surely turn to seek it. It is the first thing you look for when you

rise in the morning, and the last your lingering gaze rests upon at

night. Surely it must be the princeliest creation that ever brain of man

conceived.

At nine o'clock in the morning we went and stood before this marble

colossus. The central one of its five great doors is bordered with a

bas-relief of birds and fruits and beasts and insects, which have been so

ingeniously carved out of the marble that they seem like living

creatures--and the figures are so numerous and the design so complex that

one might study it a week without exhausting its interest. On the great

steeple--surmounting the myriad of spires--inside of the spires--over the

doors, the windows--in nooks and corners--every where that a niche or a

perch can be found about the enormous building, from summit to base,

there is a marble statue, and every statue is a study in itself!

Raphael, Angelo, Canova--giants like these gave birth to the designs, and

their own pupils carved them. Every face is eloquent with expression,

and every attitude is full of grace. Away above, on the lofty roof, rank

on rank of carved and fretted spires spring high in the air, and through

their rich tracery one sees the sky beyond. In their midst the central

steeple towers proudly up like the mainmast of some great Indiaman among

a fleet of coasters.

We wished to go aloft. The sacristan showed us a marble stairway (of

course it was marble, and of the purest and whitest--there is no other

stone, no brick, no wood, among its building materials) and told us to go

up one hundred and eighty-two steps and stop till he came. It was not

necessary to say stop--we should have done that any how. We were tired

by the time we got there. This was the roof. Here, springing from its

broad marble flagstones, were the long files of spires, looking very tall

close at hand, but diminishing in the distance like the pipes of an

organ. We could see now that the statue on the top of each was the size

of a large man, though they all looked like dolls from the street. We

could see, also, that from the inside of each and every one of these

hollow spires, from sixteen to thirty-one beautiful marble statues looked

out upon the world below.

From the eaves to the comb of the roof stretched in endless succession

great curved marble beams, like the fore-and-aft braces of a steamboat,

and along each beam from end to end stood up a row of richly carved

flowers and fruits--each separate and distinct in kind, and over 15,000

species represented. At a little distance these rows seem to close

together like the ties of a railroad track, and then the mingling

together of the buds and blossoms of this marble garden forms a picture

that is very charming to the eye.

We descended and entered. Within the church, long rows of fluted

columns, like huge monuments, divided the building into broad aisles, and

on the figured pavement fell many a soft blush from the painted windows

above. I knew the church was very large, but I could not fully

appreciate its great size until I noticed that the men standing far down

by the altar looked like boys, and seemed to glide, rather than walk. We

loitered about gazing aloft at the monster windows all aglow with

brilliantly colored scenes in the lives of the Saviour and his followers.

Some of these pictures are mosaics, and so artistically are their

thousand particles of tinted glass or stone put together that the work

has all the smoothness and finish of a painting. We counted sixty panes

of glass in one window, and each pane was adorned with one of these

master achievements of genius and patience.

The guide showed us a coffee-colored piece of sculpture which he said was

considered to have come from the hand of Phidias, since it was not

possible that any other artist, of any epoch, could have copied nature

with such faultless accuracy. The figure was that of a man without a

skin; with every vein, artery, muscle, every fiber and tendon and tissue

of the human frame represented in minute detail. It looked natural,

because somehow it looked as if it were in pain. A skinned man would be

likely to look that way unless his attention were occupied with some

other matter. It was a hideous thing, and yet there was a fascination

about it some where. I am very sorry I saw it, because I shall always

see it now. I shall dream of it sometimes. I shall dream that it is

resting its corded arms on the bed's head and looking down on me with its

dead eyes; I shall dream that it is stretched between the sheets with me

and touching me with its exposed muscles and its stringy cold legs.

It is hard to forget repulsive things. I remember yet how I ran off from

school once, when I was a boy, and then, pretty late at night, concluded

to climb into the window of my father's office and sleep on a lounge,

because I had a delicacy about going home and getting thrashed. As I lay

on the lounge and my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I fancied I

could see a long, dusky, shapeless thing stretched upon the floor. A

cold shiver went through me. I turned my face to the wall. That did not

answer. I was afraid that that thing would creep over and seize me in

the dark. I turned back and stared at it for minutes and minutes--they

seemed hours. It appeared to me that the lagging moonlight never, never

would get to it. I turned to the wall and counted twenty, to pass the

feverish time away. I looked--the pale square was nearer. I turned

again and counted fifty--it was almost touching it. With desperate will

I turned again and counted one hundred, and faced about, all in a

tremble. A white human hand lay in the moonlight! Such an awful sinking

at the heart--such a sudden gasp for breath! I felt--I cannot tell what

I felt. When I recovered strength enough, I faced the wall again. But

no boy could have remained so with that mysterious hand behind him. I

counted again and looked--the most of a naked arm was exposed. I put my

hands over my eyes and counted till I could stand it no longer, and then

--the pallid face of a man was there, with the corners of the mouth drawn

down, and the eyes fixed and glassy in death! I raised to a sitting

posture and glowered on that corpse till the light crept down the bare

breastline by line--inch by inch--past the n****e--and then it disclosed

a ghastly stab!

I went away from there. I do not say that I went away in any sort of a

hurry, but I simply went--that is sufficient. I went out at the window,

and I carried the sash along with me. I did not need the sash, but it

was handier to take it than it was to leave it, and so I took it.--I was

not scared, but I was considerably agitated.

When I reached home, they whipped me, but I enjoyed it. It seemed

perfectly delightful. That man had been stabbed near the office that

afternoon, and they carried him in there to doctor him, but he only lived

an hour. I have slept in the same room with him often since then--in my

dreams.

Now we will descend into the crypt, under the grand altar of Milan

Cathedral, and receive an impressive sermon from lips that have been

silent and hands that have been gestureless for three hundred years.

The priest stopped in a small dungeon and held up his candle. This was

the last resting-place of a good man, a warm-hearted, unselfish man; a

man whose whole life was given to succoring the poor, encouraging the

faint-hearted, visiting the sick; in relieving distress, whenever and

wherever he found it. His heart, his hand, and his purse were always

open. With his story in one's mind he can almost see his benignant

countenance moving calmly among the haggard faces of Milan in the days

when the plague swept the city, brave where all others were cowards, full

of compassion where pity had been crushed out of all other breasts by the

instinct of self-preservation gone mad with terror, cheering all, praying

with all, helping all, with hand and brain and purse, at a time when

parents forsook their children, the friend deserted the friend, and the

brother turned away from the sister while her pleadings were still

wailing in his ears.

This was good St. Charles Borromeo, Bishop of Milan. The people idolized

him; princes lavished uncounted treasures upon him. We stood in his

tomb. Near by was the sarcophagus, lighted by the dripping candles. The

walls were faced with bas-reliefs representing scenes in his life done in

massive silver. The priest put on a short white lace garment over his

black robe, crossed himself, bowed reverently, and began to turn a

windlass slowly. The sarcophagus separated in two parts, lengthwise, and

the lower part sank down and disclosed a coffin of rock crystal as clear

as the atmosphere. Within lay the body, robed in costly habiliments

covered with gold embroidery and starred with scintillating gems. The

decaying head was black with age, the dry skin was drawn tight to the

bones, the eyes were gone, there was a hole in the temple and another in

the cheek, and the skinny lips were parted as in a ghastly smile! Over

this dreadful face, its dust and decay and its mocking grin, hung a crown

sown thick with flashing brilliants; and upon the breast lay crosses and

croziers of solid gold that were splendid with emeralds and diamonds.

How poor, and cheap, and trivial these gew-gaws seemed in presence of the

solemnity, the grandeur, the awful majesty of Death! Think of Milton,

Shakespeare, Washington, standing before a reverent world tricked out in

the glass beads, the brass ear-rings and tin trumpery of the savages of

the plains!

Dead Bartolomeo preached his pregnant sermon, and its burden was: You

that worship the vanities of earth--you that long for worldly honor,

worldly wealth, worldly fame--behold their worth!

To us it seemed that so good a man, so kind a heart, so simple a nature,

deserved rest and peace in a grave sacred from the intrusion of prying

eyes, and believed that he himself would have preferred to have it so,

but peradventure our wisdom was at fault in this regard.

As we came out upon the floor of the church again, another priest

volunteered to show us the treasures of the church.

What, more? The furniture of the narrow chamber of death we had just

visited weighed six millions of francs in ounces and carats alone,

without a penny thrown into the account for the costly workmanship

bestowed upon them! But we followed into a large room filled with tall

wooden presses like wardrobes. He threw them open, and behold, the

cargoes of "crude bullion" of the assay offices of Nevada faded out of my

memory. There were Virgins and bishops there, above their natural size,

made of solid silver, each worth, by weight, from eight hundred thousand

to two millions of francs, and bearing gemmed books in their hands worth

eighty thousand; there were bas-reliefs that weighed six hundred pounds,

carved in solid silver; croziers and crosses, and candlesticks six and

eight feet high, all of virgin gold, and brilliant with precious stones;

and beside these were all manner of cups and vases, and such things, rich

in proportion. It was an Aladdin's palace. The treasures here, by

simple weight, without counting workmanship, were valued at fifty

millions of francs! If I could get the custody of them for a while, I

fear me the market price of silver bishops would advance shortly, on

account of their exceeding scarcity in the Cathedral of Milan.

The priests showed us two of St. Paul's fingers, and one of St. Peter's;

a bone of Judas Iscariot, (it was black,) and also bones of all the other

disciples; a handkerchief in which the Saviour had left the impression of

his face. Among the most precious of the relics were a stone from the

Holy Sepulchre, part of the crown of thorns, (they have a whole one at

Notre Dame,) a fragment of the purple robe worn by the Saviour, a nail

from the Cross, and a picture of the Virgin and Child painted by the

veritable hand of St. Luke. This is the second of St. Luke's Virgins we

have seen. Once a year all these holy relics are carried in procession

through the streets of Milan.

I like to revel in the dryest details of the great cathedral. The

building is five hundred feet long by one hundred and eighty wide, and

the principal steeple is in the neighborhood of four hundred feet high.

It has 7,148 marble statues, and will have upwards of three thousand more

when it is finished. In addition it has one thousand five hundred

bas-reliefs. It has one hundred and thirty-six spires--twenty-one more

are to be added. Each spire is surmounted by a statue six and a half

feet high. Every thing about the church is marble, and all from the

same quarry; it was bequeathed to the Archbishopric for this purpose

centuries ago. So nothing but the mere workmanship costs; still that is

expensive--the bill foots up six hundred and eighty-four millions of

francs thus far (considerably over a hundred millions of dollars,) and

it is estimated that it will take a hundred and twenty years yet to

finish the cathedral. It looks complete, but is far from being so. We

saw a new statue put in its niche yesterday, alongside of one which had

been standing these four hundred years, they said. There are four

staircases leading up to the main steeple, each of which cost a hundred

thousand dollars, with the four hundred and eight statues which adorn

them. Marco Compioni was the architect who designed the wonderful

structure more than five hundred years ago, and it took him forty-six

years to work out the plan and get it ready to hand over to the

builders. He is dead now. The building was begun a little less than

five hundred years ago, and the third generation hence will not see it

completed.

The building looks best by moonlight, because the older portions of it,

being stained with age, contrast unpleasantly with the newer and whiter

portions. It seems somewhat too broad for its height, but may be

familiarity with it might dissipate this impression.

They say that the Cathedral of Milan is second only to St. Peter's at

Rome. I cannot understand how it can be second to anything made by human

hands.

We bid it good-bye, now--possibly for all time. How surely, in some

future day, when the memory of it shall have lost its vividness, shall we

half believe we have seen it in a wonderful dream, but never with waking

eyes!