the ruins of Rome's secular glory, the rich and pungent odors of her cuisine, even the fragrance of orange blossom and narcissus and jasmine rising from her gardens tugged visitors in the opposite direction, toward the voluptuous enjoyment of earthly pleasures.
The contrast between spiritual and sensual was at its most inescapable during the eight days of the Roman Carnival, just before the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday, when in a noisy outburst of exuberance the populace surged en masse up and down the Corso, disguised as Harlequins, Punchinellos, pirates, gods and goddesses, sultans, artists and buffoons. Their disguises making them daring, they danced and shouted their way along, throwing confetti and paper streamers and handfuls of flour at one another and at the spectators who sat in benches along the periphery of the avenue. The maskers wove in and out between carriages filled with more revelers, among them the city authorities and other prominent notables, and escorted large triumphal floats on which oriental potentates and exotic horsemen and mythological figures posed amid antique pillars and woodland scenes and artificial hills.
The spectacle went on throughout the day and evening, becoming wilder, more violent and lascivious as the day wore on. Toward the end of the afternoon the centerpiece of the Carnival day, the race of the Barbary horses, was staged. Soldiers rode down the length of the Corso, clearing it of carriages and merrymakers. A layer of sand was laid down over the paving stones to prevent the horses from losing their footing, and the crowd, pressed back against the walls of the buildings, waited for the race to begin. The horses, bred from Berber stock, were swift and high-strung, and were goaded to a bleeding frenzy by sharp barbs that cut into their backs and made them run crazily through the street as the crowd roared and cheered. The brutality of the spectacle only added to the pleasure it gave, and the owner of the winning horse became a local hero.
Every night there were comedies and dances in the great houses, and on Sundays the Carnival was brought into the churches. Musicians played, worshipers sang and the holy statues were garlanded with flowers. For eight days restraint and inhibition were forgotten, excess ruled. Then suddenly, when a signal was given signifying the beginning of Ash Wednesday, the tumult came to an end, and for the forty days of Lent Rome was quiet. Easter brought a return to noise and celebration, however, with the dancing, shouting and merrymaking resumed.
Rome was, in fact, in a near-constant state of celebration. There were some one hundred and fifty holidays during the year—church feasts, saints' days and other festivals. Beyond this, individual neighborhoods had their own celebrations and fairs, whose disruptive jollity discouraged people in adjacent neighborhoods from working. Seasonal celebrations too were observed, some of them pre-Christian in origin. And on days when there was no official holiday, the Romans looked forward to the constant entertainment offered by the pageantry of the papal court.
Every time a new pope was installed, he went through the streets in a gorgeous procession, escorted by a glittering retinue of prelates, nobles, papal troops on foot and on horseback. Ceremonies hundreds of years old were periodically reenacted by the pope and cardinals, or by other high-ranking members of the court. Foreign ambassadors on their way to and from the papal palace were accompanied by soldiers, guardsmen and escorts of pages and valets, and because the spectacle was too elaborate to miss the populace customarily turned out to watch. Splendid religious processions added to the list of public events. And on the greatest occasions, the palaces of the aristocracy might be opened to the public, along with their spacious gardens, and for several hours the denizens of the street could wander through the grand rooms, lit with brilliant candelabra,
The contrast between spiritual and sensual was at its most inescapable during the eight days of the Roman Carnival, just before the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday, when in a noisy outburst of exuberance the populace surged en masse up and down the Corso, disguised as Harlequins, Punchinellos, pirates, gods and goddesses, sultans, artists and buffoons. Their disguises making them daring, they danced and shouted their way along, throwing confetti and paper streamers and handfuls of flour at one another and at the spectators who sat in benches along the periphery of the avenue. The maskers wove in and out between carriages filled with more revelers, among them the city authorities and other prominent notables, and escorted large triumphal floats on which oriental potentates and exotic horsemen and mythological figures posed amid antique pillars and woodland scenes and artificial hills.
The spectacle went on throughout the day and evening, becoming wilder, more violent and lascivious as the day wore on. Toward the end of the afternoon the centerpiece of the Carnival day, the race of the Barbary horses, was staged. Soldiers rode down the length of the Corso, clearing it of carriages and merrymakers. A layer of sand was laid down over the paving stones to prevent the horses from losing their footing, and the crowd, pressed back against the walls of the buildings, waited for the race to begin. The horses, bred from Berber stock, were swift and high-strung, and were goaded to a bleeding frenzy by sharp barbs that cut into their backs and made them run crazily through the street as the crowd roared and cheered. The brutality of the spectacle only added to the pleasure it gave, and the owner of the winning horse became a local hero.
Every night there were comedies and dances in the great houses, and on Sundays the Carnival was brought into the churches. Musicians played, worshipers sang and the holy statues were garlanded with flowers. For eight days restraint and inhibition were forgotten, excess ruled. Then suddenly, when a signal was given signifying the beginning of Ash Wednesday, the tumult came to an end, and for the forty days of Lent Rome was quiet. Easter brought a return to noise and celebration, however, with the dancing, shouting and merrymaking resumed.
Rome was, in fact, in a near-constant state of celebration. There were some one hundred and fifty holidays during the year—church feasts, saints' days and other festivals. Beyond this, individual neighborhoods had their own celebrations and fairs, whose disruptive jollity discouraged people in adjacent neighborhoods from working. Seasonal celebrations too were observed, some of them pre-Christian in origin. And on days when there was no official holiday, the Romans looked forward to the constant entertainment offered by the pageantry of the papal court.
Every time a new pope was installed, he went through the streets in a gorgeous procession, escorted by a glittering retinue of prelates, nobles, papal troops on foot and on horseback. Ceremonies hundreds of years old were periodically reenacted by the pope and cardinals, or by other high-ranking members of the court. Foreign ambassadors on their way to and from the papal palace were accompanied by soldiers, guardsmen and escorts of pages and valets, and because the spectacle was too elaborate to miss the populace customarily turned out to watch. Splendid religious processions added to the list of public events. And on the greatest occasions, the palaces of the aristocracy might be opened to the public, along with their spacious gardens, and for several hours the denizens of the street could wander through the grand rooms, lit with brilliant candelabra,
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