“Lord! whither goest Thou?” exclaimed the astonished apostle.
“I go to Rome to be again crucified!” answered the Master.
Peter, taking the vision as a token that he should not shrink from martyrdom, returned to Rome.
The chapel—it is nothing more—of “Domine quo vadis” commemorates the interview. We stepped from the carriage upon the broken threshold, and tried the locked door. A priest as slovenly as the building unclosed it. Directly opposite the entrance is a plaster cast of Michael Angelo’s statue of Our Saviour in the act of addressing Peter. The foot extended in the forward step has been almost kissed away by pilgrims. On the right wall is a fresh and flashy, yet graphic fresco of the Lord, walking swiftly toward Rome; upon the left kneels the conscience-smitten Peter. Between them, upon the floor, secured by a grating from the abrading homage of the vulgar, is a copy of the footprints left upon the rock at the spot where the meeting took place. The original is in the church of San Sebastiano. The marble is stained with yellowish blotches. The impression is coarsely cut; the conception is yet coarser. Two brawny, naked feet, enormous in size, plebeian in shape, are set squarely and straight, side by side, as no living man would stand of his own accord. The impudence of these priestly relics would be contemptible only, were the subjects less sacred. We turned away from the “fac-simile” in sad disgust. The legend had been a favorite with us both. We were sorry we had entered the mouldy little barn. The offer of the sacristan to sell us beads, medals, and photographs was in keeping with the rest of the show. We gave him a franc; plucked from the cracked door-stone a bit of pellitory—_herba parietina_, the sobriquet given to Trajan in derision of his habit of writing his name upon much which he had not built—and returned to our carriage.
The way is bordered, until one reaches the tomb of Cæcilia Metella by vineyard and meadow walls. Most of the stones used in building these were collected from the ancient pavement, or the _débris_ of fortresses and tombs that encumbered this. Imbedded in the mortar, and often defaced by clots and daubs of it, put in beside common rubble-stones and sherds of tufa, are many sculptured fragments. Here, the corner of a richly-carved capital projects from the surface; there, a cluster of flowers, with a serpent stealing out of sight among the leaves. Now, a baby’s head laughs between lumps of travertine or granite; next comes a part of a gladiator’s arm, or the curve of a woman’s neck. The ivy is luxuriantly aggressive and of a species we had never seen elsewhere, gemmed with glossy, saffron-colored berries. “Wee, crimson-tippéd” daisies mingled with grass that is never sere. In March we found anemones of every hue; pink and white cyclamen; wild violets, at once diffusive and retentive of odor, embalming gloves, handkerchiefs, and the much-thumbed leaves of our guide-books; reddish-brown wall-flowers, and hosts of other “wild” blossoms on this road. The dwelling-houses we passed were rude, slight huts, hovels of reeds and straw, often reared upon the foundation of a tomb.