We
walked along over the bridge, and through the Borgo Nuovo, and across
the Piazza Rusticucci, and then we skirted the colonnade on the left,
and entered the church by the sacristy, leaving De Pretis there to put
on his purple cassock and his white cotta. Then we went into the
Capella del Coro to wait for the vespers.
All sorts of people go to St. Peter's on Sunday afternoon, but they
are mostly foreigners, and bring strange little folding chairs, and
arrange themselves to listen to the music as though it were a concert.
Now and then one of the young gentlemen-in-waiting from the Vatican
strolls in and says his prayers, and there is an old woman, very
ragged and miserable, who has haunted the chapel of the choir for many
years, and sits with perfect unconcern, telling her beads at the foot
of the great reading-desk that stands out in the middle and is never
used. Great ladies crowd in through the gate when Raimondi's hymn is
to be sung, and disreputable artists make sketches surreptitiously
during the benediction, without the slightest pretence at any devotion
that I can see. The lights shine out more brightly as the day wanes,
and the incense curls up as the little boys swing the censers, and the
priests and canons chant, and the choir answers from the organ loft;
and the crowd looks on, some saying their prayers, some pretending to,
and some looking about for the friend or lover they have come to meet.
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