Thus Spoke Goethe - Journey To Rome

 

 

 

Rome, the Porta del Popolo entrance- I was still afraid I might be dreaming, hardly believing my eyes until I passed through the city’s Northern Gate. 

Goethe has haunted me for a long time, and here he is, returning once again to Italy,  to travel  under its blessed skies in the company of  Mazin Mustafa , the writer – “Herder”, who could, with one or two  touches of his pen, correct this text, and my friend Adil Haddad – “Tishbein” – who dedicated himself to the poet and expressed his constant willingness to  show him the new Rome , wherein  he has lived for many years. 

We passed the city’s Northern Gate on 14 May 2005, and I read to my friend – “  at last I can break my silence “- on 1 November 1786. 

The Santa Maria del Popolo to our left, built on the grave of Neron, the tyrant who ripped open his mother’s stomach and burnt Rome, and whom Pope Pashchall II had exhumed and thus irradiated the last remains of heathenism, or so he claimed. We entered the humble church to salute Caravaggio’s “Conversion of Saint Paol” and “ Crucifixion of St. Peter”, their oil almost shines in the darkness of the temple, though untouched by fire.  How marvelous, how majestic! 

Noon …. 

We are now on Quirianale, the highest of Rome’s seven hills, treading the same ground    Germany’s great poet had trodden more than two centuries ago. The temple of Kuirinus, the God of War, used to stand at this spot in the past, but Pope Pio VI (1775-1799) chapel is our destination today. The Supreme Pontiff was a handsome, venerable man, but the cardinals were of various ages and builds. When I saw him merely moving from one side of the altar to the other and muttering like any ordinary priest, the original sin of the Protestant stirred in me, and I found no pleasure in the mass. Did not Christ, even as a child, choose to speak in a loud voice? As a young man, he certainly did not teach or work miracles in silence. And I said to myself, what would he say when he sees his representative on earth droning and muttering about?    

A lot of writers and artists lived on this hill, Marshal, Bonzio, Fontana and Berninti, and others, and on this hill, Pope Gregory VIII built a summerhouse, a sanctuary from   the Vatican’s scorching heat. 

We stopped at Rome’s most famous fountain, Trevi , designed and built by Nicola Salvi back in 1762. Neptune stands tall in the middle, flanked by the God of the Sea   struggling to control a wild horse and another leading on a calm one, both symbolizing    the moods of the sea. A bunch of tourists throw coins, having asked for wishes to be fulfilled. We, in turn, muttered a few words, tossed our coins and moved on. 

We visited the Spanish amphitheater, where the Spanish embassy is located and hence inspired the name. We strolled towards the house of Keith, the romantic English poet who lived here for a year in an elegant house overlooking the amphitheater. Goethe told me this story about how lightly the sacred is taken in holly Rome:   

An Albanian cardinal attended mass, and one of the foreign students approached him and said in his foreign tongue (Cnaja, Cnaja) and it sounded more like (kanjia, kanjia), which meant (scoundrel,  scoundrel).

The cardinal turned to his company and said: 

 - This young man surely knows us!! 

Before sunset, we headed towards the Villa Madame boulevard , where the poet sat and watched the beautiful sunset. We climbed a mountain surrounded by beech, chestnut trees, poplar and orange trees and stopped at a gate blocking the way.  We asked the guard  for access but he apologized saying (you must get a permit from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs). We then proceeded to the other side of the mountain where the magnificent Hilton hotel stands, overlooking the city of Rome. There, from a back window, we were able to see the sunset, but the telecommunications metallic towers and power lines disfigured the face of the suns the poet had described.

On the next morning, we knew through our Consul that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs has approved our visit to the palace in Villa Madame, provided that we make it in the morning. I responded saying that: the palace is not our intent, it is to walk the same path   Goethe had once took, exactly just before sunset. How could the Ministry in Rome realize the longing of a poet returning to the same road after an absence of two hundred and twenty years?? 

The sky in Italy is blessed. I can at least say that I have never been so sensitive about the things of this world the way I’m at present, and the blessed outcome of this will touch my entire coming life. 

In the evening we set out to a small restaurant that serves the wonderful Bucatini All Americana, and tomato salad with delicious balsamic vinegar and olive oil as dressing. 

The following day we visited the great Pantheon who filled Goethe with pleasure, and   saw the ruins of the archways of the great water channel of which he said:  (what a noble ambition this channel represents, placed above the archways and giant bridges only to supply people with water, and baptize us with the pure Trevi waters)

 In other cities one must look for interesting sites, but here, these sites rally on you in abundance) 

Goethe added: 

(there is a story about a fisherman who was caught at night by a storm  and was trying to steer his boat homeward. His little boy clanged to him and asked: Father, what is that little funny light that I now see moving up and down? The father promised to give him the answer the next morning. It turned out to have been the beacon of the lighthouse, which, to the child’s eyes, as the boat rocked up and down on the wild waves, appeared moving up and down.   

I, too, am steering my boat towards the port over a wild and stormy sea, keeping my eyes on the lighthouse beacon, even if it appeared shifty, so that at last I may come home safely.     

I excused myself from the poet to walk to Samona, my lighthouse, for I must pay my respects to Ofeed, the great poet. 

We headed east across green hills and valleys. These are the gardens of Italy, the clouds clustering on hilltops and the breeze emits, sparkling across the thickets which spread  as far as the eye can see.     

Salamona, home of Ofeed, the poet, and the cradle of his childhood, welcomes us with a group wedding. We knew beforehand that the poet has arranged it for us so that we can get acquainted with the radiant faces he had  once described in the art of fondness and the   poems of love. I read to him my Arabic translation of his immortal poem- Fidelity- at the monument now built in the city square. I felt that tranquility will stay with me for the rest of my life. We set out to the tourism office where a girl welcomed us and provided us with introductory brochures on Salmona, and others on Ofeed, then asked, where are you from?  We told her we were Arabs from the Emirates, Palestine and Tunisia. She was delighted and added that it was her first time to meet Arabs and bade us farewell with a sweet smile. 

The Czech poet Yaroslaf Sefert says (We see many pictures everyday, but they are quickly erased from our memory, and many ideas rush to our minds, but they elude us the minute we try to commit them to paper. But the face I saw yesterday at the intersection, is still very much present before my eyes, refusing to disappear). The face of  the girl at the tourism office just wont go away. 

We roamed the city and took some pictures. I saw a handsome boy running in front of a young girl, probably his mother. Ofeed told me later (I was that boy) . Salmona is proud of two things: the first is the fact it gave birth to Ofeed and the second is that it is the town famous for the “Conffetti” sweets, nuts coated with sugar. I said to the person who informed me of this fact “No, it is only famous for only one thing”. We drank a toast to the love poet and headed towards the Adriatic, to Biskara, where the boy once took a bath. We got baptized by the seawater on the northern Italian coast; we had a lunch date. Lavarelli in Carpioni, preceded by Insalata di mare Della lagvna. We then returned to   the Renaissance capital at nightfall.

Nobody who has not taken one can imagine the beauty of a walk through Rome under a full moon light. All details are engulfed by  the huge masses of light and shadow  and only the biggest and most general outlines are visible. We have so far enjoyed three clear and wonderful nights, and the Coliseum was of breathtaking beauty.

The poet said to me, adding:

The  smoke of the fire started by the beggars in the Coliseum basement, was carried away by a light breath to the arena, and there it drew a curtain on the underground cellars and nothing remained visible but the huge blocks perking up in the darkness.    

We kept watching the moon, high and lit up in the middle of the sky. The smoke kept leaking through holes and outlets, appearing under the moonlight, like a light fog. It was a spectacular scene. This is the kind of lighting under which we had seen the Pantheon, the Capitol and the square overlooking St Peters church and other great squares and avenues.  I said to my companion:

(This is  wonderful scene has been ruined by  electricity, it can never be seen again except by some one who read your Italian Journey or sat and listened to you). The next day we headed to the Vatican, we could hardly believe our eyes. The queue was stretching for miles. I got frustrated by the scene and suggested to my friends that we better come back tomorrow morning, ahead of the crowd.  Then came the next morning and we headed to the same spot at 8 AM, only to be surprised that the queue still extends for miles. I was so annoyed and angry:   (Are we going to leave this country without visiting St Sestina ceiling and feast our eyes on the Pieta?). “Tichbein”, however,  had another idea. (We must head to the entrance, and not stand in the queue!). I objected: (we cannot do that, it will be such a great embarrassment). 

He responded: (You are in Italy).  Adel pushed his way through the queues that are too weary with waiting to push away anything.  I saw a guard yelling at a tourist to go back to the end of the queue . Adel joined the queue closest to the entrance and signaled to us to sneak to the entrance. We were inside the Vatican, in a mere five minutes, what a miracle! We obeyed Adel, pardon Goethe, and pardon Italy.  We had to do something in order to win a meeting with Michael Angelo. Mazin added (this is how the Vatican should be entered). 

The roman runes, the bronze Hercules statue, Aphrodite, Goddess of beauty, Minerva: Goddess of arts, Juno: Goddess of all goddesses, Jupiter: God of all gods, endless lines of marvelous statues calling out to you. And then the oil paints, hundreds and hundreds of them, and the silk carpets. Wherever you turn , the Medusa would get you, but not today. Today we are on a date with just one artist, Goethe said to me: (At present, my fascination by Michael Angelo reached such degree that I have forgotten my appreciation of nature, because I’m no longer able to look at it with the eyes of a genius, the way he did.) Alas, if only there is a way to carve such images deeply into one’s memory. 

We left the chapel and headed to Rafael’s mural mosaics, and although I find it so hard to admit the truth, I should say that I no longer want to look at these mural mosaics. My eyes were broadened and became addicted to Michael Angelo’s great shapes; they no longer find any pleasure in the mosaic trivialities nor the biblical stories engraved by Rafael. For despite their grand beauty, they are incomparable to the works of Michael Angelo. How great a pleasure would it be if I could see the works of both artists over and over, and objectively compare them, for one’s impressions are susceptible to bias? I stare at the Sestina ceiling and murmur: 

“My uncertainty of you boils, oh drawings, and I nearly inspect you with a touch of my hand” 

We are inside Saint Peters church, in front of the Pieta,  the Virgin Mother, with Baby Christ cradled in her arms, no, this is not a muted stone, it is virgin Mary herself, crying. Michael Angelo has achieved this miracle at the tender age of twenty five. We were standing on the other side of that hateful glass partition. If only Michael Angelo would come and see the pilgrims, and see what has become of his imprisoned wonder, would he liberate her from the Vatican’s prison? She is worthy of circumambulation by these crowds. I reached a second life, a very rebirth and a resurrection, on the day I entered Rome.

Thus Goethe told me…

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Translated by” Hashim Habiballa