From the Oak to the Olive Part 2

Returning to our hostelry, we sleep with open window in a musty room, and catch cold. The next day's journey still conducts us through a vine-growing region, in a more and more advanced condition. The constant presence of the _morus multicaulis_ also makes us aware of the presence of the silk-worm--so far, only in the egg-condition; for that prime minister of vanity is not hatched yet. We learn that the disease which has for some years devastated the worm is on the decline. The world with us, meanwhile has become somewhat weaned from the absolute necessity of the article, and the friendly sheep and alpaca have made great progress in the aesthetics of the toilet. As we approach Ma.r.s.eilles, we cross a dreary flat of wide extent, covered with stones and saltish gra.s.s, and said to produce the finest cattle in France. The olive, too, makes his stiff bow to us as we pa.s.s, well remembering his dusty green. The olive trees seem very small, and are, indeed, of comparatively recent growth; all the larger ones having been killed by a frost, rare in these lat.i.tudes, whose epoch we are inclined to state as posterior to our last presence in these parts. Our informant places it at twenty years ago.

After three days of piecemeal travelling, the arrival at Ma.r.s.eilles seems quite a relief.

Ma.r.s.eILLES.

At Ma.r.s.eilles we find a quasi tropical aspect--long streets, handsome and well-shaded, tempting shops, luxurious hotels, a motley company, and, above all, a friend, one of our own countrymen, divided between the glitter of the new life and the homesick weaning of the old. Half, he a.s.sumes the cicerone, and guides our ignorance about. Half, he sits to learn, and we expound to him what has befallen at home, so far as we are conscious of it. We take half a day for resting, the next day for sight-seeing. On the third, we must sail, for finding that Holy Week is still to be, we determine to make our reluctant sacrifice to the Mediterranean, and to trust our precious comfort and delicate equilibrium to that blue imposture, that sunniest of humbugs.

On the second day, we climb the steep ascent that leads to the chapel of La Bonne Mere de la Garde. This hot and panting ascent is not made by us without many pauses for recovered breath and energy. At every convenient stopping-place in the steep ascent are stationed elderly women presiding over small booths, who urgently invite us to purchase candles to give to the Madonna, medals, rosaries, and photographs, to all of whom we oppose a steadfast resistance. We have twice in our lives brought home from Europe boat-loads of trash, and we think that, as Paul says, the time past of our lives may suffice us. Finally, with a degree of perspiration more than salutary, we reach the top, and enjoy first the view of the Mediterranean, including a bird's-eye prospect of the town, which looks so parched and arid as to make the remembrance of London in the rain soothing and pleasant. A palace is pointed out which was built in the expectation of a night's sojourn of the emperor, but to which, they tell us, he never came. Our point of view is the top of one of the towers of the church. Going inside, we look down upon the aisles and altars from a lofty gallery. The silver robes of the Madonna glisten, reflecting the many wax-lights that devotees have kindled around her. The first sight of these material expressions of devotion is imposing, the second instructive, the third, commonplace and wearisome. We are at the last clause, and gaze at these things with the eyes of people who have seen enough of them.

The remainder of the disposable day we employ in a drive to the Prado, the fas.h.i.+onable region for the display of equipage and toilet. This is not, however, the fas.h.i.+onable day, and we meet only a few grumpy-looking dowagers in all stages of fat.i.tude. The road is planted with double rows of lindens, and is skirted by country residences and villas to let. We stop and alight at the Musee, a s.p.a.cious and handsome building, erected and owned by a n.o.ble of great wealth, long since dead, who committed celibacy, and left no personal heir. It is now the property of the city of Ma.r.s.eilles. The hall is fine. Among the s.p.a.cious salons, the largest is used as a gallery of pictures, mostly by artists of this neighborhood, and of very humble merit. In another we find a very good collection of Egyptian antiquities, while in yet another the old state furniture is retained, the rich crimson hangings, long divan of gobelin, and chairs covered with fine worsted needle-work. Beyond is a pretty Chinese cabinet, with a full-length _squatue_ of Buddh, gayly gilded and painted. Above stairs, the state bed and hangings are shown, the latter matching a handsome landscape chintz, with which the walls are covered.

This museum has in it a good deal of instructive and entertaining matter, and is kept in first-rate order. Returning, we drive around the outer skirts of the town, and see something of the summer bathing hotels, the great storehouses, and the streets frequented by the working and seafaring portion of the community.

In the evening we walk through the streets, which are brilliant with gas, and visit the cafes, where ices, coffee, and lemonade are enjoyed.

We finally seat ourselves in a casino, a sort of mixed cafe and theatre, where the most motley groups of people are coming, going, and sitting.

At one end is a small stage, with a curtain, which falls at the end of each separate performance. Here songs and dances succeed each other, only half heeded by the public, who drink, smoke, and chatter without stint. After a hornpipe, a dreadful woman in white, with a blue peplum, hoa.r.s.ely shouts a song without music, accompanied by drums and barbaric cymbals. She makes at last a vile courtesy, matching the insufficiency of her dress below by its utter absence above the waist, and we take flight. The next morning witnesses our early departure from Ma.r.s.eilles.

ROME.

With feelings much mingled, I approach, for the third time, the city of Rome. I pause to collect the experience of sixteen years, the period intervening between my second visit and the present. I left Rome, after those days, with entire determination, but with infinite reluctance.

America seemed the place of exile, Rome the home of sympathy and comfort. To console myself for the termination of my travels, I undertook a mental pilgrimage, which unfolded to me something of the spirit of that older world, of which I had found the form so congenial.

To the course of private experience were added great public lessons.

Among these I may name the sublime failure of John Brown, the sorrow and success of the late war. And now I must confess that, after so many intense and vivid pages of life, this visit to Rome, once a theme of fervent and solemn desire, becomes a mere page of embellishment in a serious and instructive volume. So, while my countrymen and women, and the Roman world in general, hang intent upon the pages of the picture-book, let me resume my graver argument, and ask and answer such questions of the present as may seem useful and not ungenial.

The Roman problem has for the American thinker two clauses: first, that of state and society; secondly, that of his personal relation to the same. Arriving here, and becoming in some degree acquainted with things as they are, he asks, first, What is the theory of this society, and how long will it continue? secondly, What do my countrymen who consent to pa.s.s their lives here gain? what do they give up? I cannot answer either of these questions exhaustively. The first would lead me far into social theorizing; the second into some ungracious criticism. So a word, a friendly one must stand for good intentions where wisdom is at fault.

The theory of this society in policy and religion is that of a symbolism whose remote significance has long been lost sight of and forgotten.

Here the rulers, whose derived power should represent the _consensus_ of the people, affect to be greater than those who const.i.tute them, and the petty statue, raised by the great artist for the convenience and instruction of the crowd, spurns at the solid basis of the heaven-born planet, without which it could not stand. Rank here is not a mere convenience and cla.s.sification for the encouragement of virtue and promotion of order. Rank here takes the place of virtue, and repression, its tool, takes the place of order. A paralysis of thought characterizes the whole community, for thought deprived of its legitimate results is like the human race debarred from its productive functions--it becomes effete, and soon extinct.

Abject poverty and rudeness characterize the lower cla.s.s (_ba.s.so ceto_), bad taste and want of education the middle, utter arrogance and superficiality the upper cla.s.s. The distinctions between one set of human beings and another are held to be absolute, and the inferiority of opportunity, carefully preserved and exaggerated, is regarded as intrinsic, not accidental. Vain is it to plead the democratic allowances of the Catholic church. The equality of man before G.o.d is here purely abstract and disembodied. The name of G.o.d, on the contrary, is invoked to authorize the most flagrant inequalization that ignorance can prepare and inst.i.tutions uphold. The finest churches, the fairest galleries, you will say, are open to the poorest as to the richest. This is true. But the man's mind is the castle and edifice of his life. Look at these rough and ragged people, unwashed, uncombed, untaught. See how little sensible they are of the decencies and amenities of life. Search their faces for an intelligent smile, a glance that recognizes beauty or fitness in any of the stately circ.u.mstances that surround them. They are kept like human cattle, and have been so kept for centuries. And their dominants suppose themselves to be of one sort, and these of another.

But give us absolutism, and take away education, even in rich and roomy America, and what shall we have? The cruel and arrogant slaveholder, the vulgar and miserable poor white, the wronged and degraded negro. The three cla.s.ses of men exist in all const.i.tuted society. Absolutism allows them to exist only in this false form.

This race is not a poor, but a robust and kindly one. Inclining more to artistic ill.u.s.tration than to abstract thought, its gifts, in the hierarchy of the nations, are eminent and precious. Like the modern Greek, the modern Celt, and the modern negro, the Italian peasant asks a century or two of education towards modern ideas. And all that can be said of his want of comprehension only makes it the more evident that the sooner we begin, the better.

It should not need, to Americans or Englishmen, to set out any formal argument against absolutism. Among them it has long since been tried and judged. Enough of its advocacy only remains to present that opposition which is the necessary basis of action. And yet a word to my countrymen and countrywomen, who, lingering on the edge of the vase, are lured by its sweets, and fall into its imprisonment. It is a false, false superiority to which you are striving to join yourself. A prince of puppets is not a prince, but a puppet; a superfluous duke is no dux; a t.i.tular count does not count. Dresses, jewels, and equipages of tasteless extravagance; the sickly smile of disdain for simple people; the clinging together, by turns eager and haughty, of a clique that becomes daily smaller in intention, and whose true decline consists in its numerical increase,--do not dream that these lift you in any time way--in any true sense. For Italians to believe that it does, is natural; for Englishmen to believe it, is discreditable; for Americans, disgraceful.

Leaving philosophy for the moment, I must renew my sketchy pictures of the scenes I pa.s.s through, lest treacherous memory should relinquish their best traits unpreserved. Arrived in Rome, at a very prosaic and commonplace station, I had some difficulty in recognizing the front of Villa Negroni, an old papal residence belonging to the Ma.s.simi family, in whose wide walls the relatives I now visit had formerly built their nest. A cosy and pleasant one it was, with the view of the distant hills, a large _entourage_ of gardens, a fine orange grove, and the neighborhood of some interesting ruins and churches. With all the cordiality of the old time these relatives now met me. My labors of baggage and conveyance were ended. One leads me to the carriage, where another waits to receive me. Time has been indulgent, we think, to both of us, for each finds the other little changed.

And now we begin in earnest to tread the fairy land of dreams. Here are the Quattro Fontane, there is the Quirinal, yonder the dome of domes. We thread the streets in which I used to hunt for small jewelry and pictures at a bargain, enacting the part of the prodigal son, and providing a dinner of husks for the sake of a feast of gewgaws. A certain salutary tingling of shame visits my cheeks at the remembrance of the same. I find the personage of those days poor and trivial. But here is the Forum of Trajan, and soon we drive within a palatial doorway, and our guides lead us up a stately marble staircase--a long ascent; but we pause finally, and a great door opens, and they say, Welcome! We are now at home.

Through a long hall we go, and through a sweep of apartments unmatchable in Fifth Avenue, at least in architectural dignity, seconded by rich and measured taste--green parlor, crimson parlor, drab parlor, the lady's room, the signore's room, the children's room. And in the guest-chamber I confronted my small and dusty self in the gla.s.s--small, not especially in my human proportions. But the whole of my modest house in B. Place would easily, as to solid contents, lodge in the largest of those lofty rooms. The Place itself would equally lodge in the palace. I regard my re-found friends with wonder, and expect to see them execute some large and stately manoeuvre, indicating their possession of all this s.p.a.ce.

And now, dinner served in irreproachable style, and waited on by two young men whose air and deportment would amply justify their appearance at Papanti's Hall on any state occasion. We soon grow used to their polite services; but at first Mario and Giuseppe somewhat intimidate us.

And after dinner, talk of old times and old friends, question of this region and the other, the cold limbo as to weather, whence we come. Long and familiar is our interchange of facts, and sleep comes too soon, yet is welcome.

ST. PETER'S.

The first day in Rome sees us pursuing the phantom of the St. Peter ceremonies, for all of which, tickets have been secured for us. Solid fact as the performance of the _functions_ remains, for us it a.s.sumes a forcible unreality, through the impeding intervention of black dresses and veils, with what should be women under them. But as these creatures push like battering-rams, and caper like he-goats, we shall prefer to adjourn the question of their humanity, and to give it the benefit of a doubt. We must except, however, our countrywomen from dear Boston, who were not seen otherwise than decently and in order. Into the well-remembered _palco_ we now drag the trembling neophyte, dished up in black in a manner altogether astonis.h.i.+ng to herself. And we push her youthful head this way and that. "See, there are the cardinals; there is the pope; there, in white-capped row, sit the pilgrims. Now, the pope's mitre being removed, he proceeds with great state to wash the pilgrims'

feet." But she, like sister Anne in the Blue Beard controversy, might reply, "I see only a flock of black dresses, heaped helter-skelter, the one above the other." Some bits of the picture she does get, certainly, which may thus be catalogued: "Pope's nose, black dress, ditto skull-cap, black dress, a touch of cardinal's back, black dress--and now? Bla--ck dre--ss, for the rest of the time. But what is this commotion?" For now the he-goats begin to jump in the most extraordinary way, racing out of the tribune as eagerly as they had pressed into it.

Their haste is to see the _tavola_, or pilgrims' table, up stairs, where the pope and cardinals are to wait upon the twelve elect, whose foot-was.h.i.+ng we have just tried to see. Silence, decency, decorum--all are forgotten. One in diamonds calls to a friend in the crowd outside, "Hollo, Hollo! Come along with us!" and at the top of her voice. If "the devil take the hindmost" be the moving cause of this gymnastic, I would humbly suggest that, on these occasions, the devil certainly seems to be in the foremost. With a little suppressed grumbling, we tumble out of the tribune, and descend to the body of the church, where the double line of Swiss guards detains us so long as to render our tickets for the _cupola_, where the pilgrims' feast takes place, nearly useless. This detention seems to be entirely arbitrary; for when, after endless entreaty, we are allowed to reach the door, an easy ingress is allowed us. And here, bit by bit, the neophyte puzzles out the significance of the scene before her--a table set with ma.s.sive golden ornaments (silver gilt at best), the twelve white caps behind; the great church dignitaries handing plates of fish, vegetables, and fruit towards the table; the pope hidden behind some black dress or other, and a chanting of prayers or texts, we know not what. The whole is much like the stage banquet in Macbeth, the part of Banquo's ghost being played by the spirit of the Christian religion.

And now away, away! to the door of the Sistine Chapel, where the _Miserere_ will be sung at six of the clock, it now being one of the same. So, in profane haste, we reach that door, already occupied by a small mob of women of the politer sort, and others. Here one maintains one's position till two o'clock, when the door opens, and, in shocking disorder, the mob enter. Those who keep the door exclaim, "Do not push so, ladies; there is room for all." But the savageness of the Anglo-Saxon race has full scope to-day, not being on its good behavior, as at home. So the abler-bodied jam and cram the less athletic without stint. After falling harmlessly on my face, I breathe freely, and obtain an end seat on the long benches reserved for the unreserved ladies.

And here pa.s.sed three weary hours before the office began, and another hour after that before the musical _bonne bouche_, coveted by these people, and little appreciated by many of them, was offered to their tired acceptance. The first interval was mostly employed in the resuscitating process of _chawing_ upon such victuals as had not proved contraband for such an occasion. And here were exchanged some little amenities which revived our sinking hopes of the race. Biscuits, sandwiches, and chocolate pastilles were shared. "m.u.f.fin from the Hotel de Russie" was offered by a face not unknown. Munching thereon with thankfulness, we interrogate, and find with joy a Boston woman. O comfort! be my friend; and when the next black rush doth come, if fisticuffs should become general and dangerous, be so good as to belabor the woman who belabors me.

The office begins at five. It consists mostly of linked sameness long drawn out. The chapel is by this time well filled with ceremonial amateurs in every sort and quality. Men of all nationalities, in gentlemen's dress, fill the seats and throng the aisle. Priests, _militaires_, and even Sisters of Charity, vary the monotony of the strict coat and pantaloon. Upon an upright triangle, as is well known, are spiked the fifteen burning candles, of which all, save one, must be quenched before we can enjoy our dear-bought _Miserere_. Much of our attendant zeal is concentrated upon the progress visible in their decline. The effect of the chanting is as square and monotonous as would be the laying down of so many musical paving-stones. We tried to peep at the Latin text of a book of prayers in the hand of a priest on our left; but the pitiless Swiss guard caused him and his Breviary to move on, and this resource was lost. About half way through the office, a pause came over matters, very unwelcome to our hurry. A door on the left of the altar opened, and the pope entered, preceded by his guard. He walked to his throne on the right of the altar, and the chanting was resumed. Some time before this, however, the _treni_ or lamentations were sung. These were chanted in a high voice, neither fresh nor exact, and did not make on me the impression of sixteen years ago. The extinguis.h.i.+ng of the candles was a slow agony, the intervals appearing endless. Finally, all the lights were out. The one burning taper which represented Christ was removed out of sight, the pope sank upon his knees before the altar, and the verses of the _Miserere_ were sung. Twilight and fixed attention prevailed through the chapel, whose vaulted roof lends a certain magic of its own to the weird chant. Yet, with the remembrance of sixteen years since, and with present judgment, I am inclined to consider the supremacy of the _Miserere_ a musical superst.i.tion. I know not what critical convictions its literal study would develop, but, as I heard it, much of it seemed out of tune, and deformed by other than musical discords. The _soprani_, without exception, were husky, and strained their voices to meet the highest effects. The vaulted roof, indeed, gives a lovely scope to such melody as there is. The dim, majestic frescos, which you still feel, though you see them no longer,--the brilliancy and variety of the company, its temporary stillness,--all these circ.u.mstances in this _ne plus ultra_ of the Roman aesthetic combine to impress you. But the kneeling pontiff and his cardinals did not appear to me invested with any true priesthood. I could feel no religious sympathy with their movements, which seemed a show, and part of a show--nothing more. And when the verses were all sung, and the shuffling of feet at the end got through with, I staid not to see the procession into the Pauline Chapel, nor the adoration of the relics, nor the mopping of St. Peter's altar. I had seen enough of such sights, and, quietly wrapping the twilight about my discontent, I thankfully went where kindred voices and a kindred faith allowed me to claim the shelter of home.

SUPPER OF THE PILGRIMS.

Faster go these shows than one can describe them. On Good Friday evening we attempted only to see the supper of the female pilgrims at the Trinita dei Pellegrini. This again I undertook for the neophytes' sake, having myself once witnessed the august ceremony. Here, as everywhere at this time, we found a crowd of black dresses, with and without veils, which, on this occasion, are optional. Another mob of women, small but energetic; another rush to see what, under other circ.u.mstances, we should hold to be but a sorry sight. The pilgrims are waited upon by an a.s.sociation of ladies, who wear a sort of feminine overall in scarlet cotton, nearly concealing a dress, usually black, of ordinary wear. They are also distinguished by a pictorial badge, representing, I think, the Easter Lamb, in some connection. Some of these ladies are of princely family, others of rank merely civic. Princess Ma.s.simo, of first-rate pretensions, keeps the inner entrance to the rites, and accords it only to a limited number in turn. We tumble down the dividing stairs in the usual indecorous manner, and walk through two rooms, in each of which the pilgrims sit with their feet in tubs of water, the attendant ladies being employed either in scrubbing them clean, or in wiping them dry.

All were working women from the country, their faces mostly empty of thought and rude with toil. Some of the heads were not without character, and would easily have made, with their folded head-dresses, a _genre_ picture. In general, they and their attire were as rough and uninteresting as women and their belongings can be. A number of them carried infants, whose appearance also invited the cleansing ministration, which did not include them. In either room an ecclesiastic recited prayers in Latin, and a pretty young lady at intervals rattled a box, the signal for the partic.i.p.ants to make the sign of the cross, which they did in a business-like manner. From this _lavanda_ we pa.s.sed to other rooms, in which the supper tables were in process of preparation. The materials for the meal were divided into portions. To each one was allotted a plate of salad and sardines, one of _bacala_, or fried salt fish, two small loaves of bread, and a little pitcher of wine, together with figs and oranges. The red-gowned ministrants bestirred themselves in dividing and arranging these portions, with much apparent good nature. Many of them wore diamond earrings, and one young lady, whom we did not see at work, was adorned as to the neck with a rich collar of jewelled lockets, an article of the latest fas.h.i.+on. All of these ladies are supposed to be princesses, but several of them talked house-gossip in homely Italian. To us the time seemed long, but at length arrived the _minestra_ in a huge kettle. This universal Italian dish is a watery soup, containing a paste akin to macaroni. And now the pilgrims, having had all the was.h.i.+ng they could endure, came in to take possession of the goods prepared for them. Those of the same family tried to sit together, but did not always manage to do so. For every babe a double portion is allowed, and the coin (ten cents) received at departure is also doubled. We had feared lest the pilgrims might have found the presence of numbers a source of embarra.s.sment. But it did not prove so. They attacked their victuals with the most practical and evident enjoyment. The babies were fed with _minestra_, fish, salad, and wine. Of these one was two weeks old, and its mother had walked four days to get to Rome. Each pilgrim carried either a bottle or a tin canteen, into which the superior waiting-women decanted the wine allowed, that they might carry it home with them. A Latin grace was rehea.r.s.ed before they fell to. Cardinals and _monsignori_ were seen, here and there, talking with friends among the spectators. Observing that pilgrims eat much like other people, we left them still at table, and came away, to find the Prince Ma.s.simo in pink cotton, at the bottom of the staircase, and a stupid Swiss, with ill-managed bayonet, guarding the outer entrance. He, a raw recruit, carried his weapon as carelessly as a lady waves a bouquet. Close to the eye of the neophyte he thrusts it, through inattention. A scream from me makes her aware of the danger, but affects him not. Under the weight of my objurgation he falters not, but makes a vehement pa.s.s at a harmless dog, which runs by unhurt. And my reflections upon his sheer brutishness were the closing ones of the day.

EASTER.

St. Peter's on Easter called us with the magical summons of the silver trumpets, blown at the elevation of the host, and remembered by me through these sixteen years. To the tribunes, however, I did not betake myself, but, armed with a camp stool, wandered about the church, getting now a _coup d'oeil_, now a whiff of harmony. The neophytes had our tickets, and beheld the ceremonies, which, once seen, are of little interest to those to whom they are not matters of religion. The pope and cardinals officiate at high ma.s.s, with the music of the Sistine singers.

The pope drinks of the consecrated cup through a golden tube, the cup itself having previously been tasted of by one commissioned for the purpose. This feature clearly indicates the recognized possibility of poison. It is probably not observed by most of those present, who have, after all, but a glimpse of what pa.s.ses. The effect of the trumpets is certainly magical. The public has no knowledge of their whereabouts, and the sound seems to fall from some higher region. Having enjoyed this aesthetic moment, one hurries out into the piazza in front of the church, where a great a.s.semblage waits to receive the papal benediction. Here seats and balconies can be hired, and a wretched boy screeches, "_Ecco luoghi_," for half an hour, as if he had a watchman's rattle in his head. At last the blessed father in his palanquin is borne to that upper window of the church, over which the white canopy rests: his mitres are all arranged before him. The triple crown, glittering with jewels, is on his head. On either side of him flutter the peac.o.c.k fans. Cannons clear the way for his utterance, and holding up two fingers, he recites the apostolic benediction in a voice of remarkable distinctness and power.

It is received by good Catholics on their knees. Another cannon shot closes the performance, and at the same moment two or three papers, containing indulgences, fall from the pontiff's hand. Then the crowd disperses, and you yourself, having witnessed "the most impressive ceremony in the world," become chiefly occupied with the getting home, the crowd of carriages being very great, and the bridge of St. Angelo reserved for the pa.s.sage of the _legni privilegiati_. And on the way, query as to this impressiveness. If one could suppose that the pope had any special blessing to bestow, or that he thought he had, one would certainly be desirous and grateful to share in it. If one could consider him as consecrated by anything better than a superst.i.tion for anything better than the priestly maintenance of an absolute rule, one might look in his kindly old face with a feeling stronger than that of personal good-will or indifference. But I, standing to see and hear him, was in the position of Macbeth.

"I had most need of blessing, but Amen Stuck in my throat."

And I concluded that common sense, common justice, and civil and religious liberty,--the n.o.blest gifts of the past and promises of the future,--had been quite long enough

"Butchered to make a Roman holiday."

As for the evening illumination, it was just as I remember it on two former occasions, separated from this and from each other by long intervals. A magical and unique spectacle it certainly is, with the well-known change from the paper lanterns to the flaring _lampions_.

Costly is it of human labor, and perilous to human life. And when I remembered that those employed in it receive the sacrament beforehand, in order that imminent death may not find them out of a state of grace, I thought that its beauty did not so much signify.

We have a dome, too, in Was.h.i.+ngton. The Genius of Liberty poises on its top; the pediment below it is adorned with the emblems of honest thrift and civic prosperity. May that dome perish ere it be lit at the risk of human life, and lit, like this, to make the social darkness around it more evident by its momentary aureole.