Arts ancient and modern, some sight-seeing and two great writers’ beds

I can’t claim to have been overwhelmed in the same way as Proust was, but I was flooded with memories of reading the whole of his wonderful novel, the longest ever written, at around 1.3 million words, one of my life ambitions fulfilled around ten years ago. Here’s that passage in French and English:

“And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray… my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane.

No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me.

And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory—this new sensation having had on me  the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me, it was me.”

Mais à l’instant même où la gorgée mêlée des miettes du gâteau toucha mon palais, un frisson me parcourut, attentif à ce qui se passait d’extraordinaire en moi.

Il m’avait aussitôt rendu les vicissitudes de la vie indifférentes, ses désastres inoffensifs, sa brièveté illusoire, de la même façon qu’opère l’amour, en me remplissant d’une essence précieuse : ou plutôt cette essence n’était pas en moi, elle était moi.”

Nadar’s son, Paul, accompanied his father to take this photograph and, in 1928, he gave this eye-witness report to the film-director Carlo Rim (1902 – 1989):

“Hugo laid out on his great big four-poster bed, his nightshirt and pillow all wrinkled, his hair on end, his rather large nose not yet emaciated by death. An old worker sleeping peacefully after an honest day’s work. My father had not wished to carry a lot of material. Victor Hugo’s deathbed photo was taken by nothing but daylight and lamplight… The last time his face was lit was by the sun… This shot, taken by my weeping father, may well be his masterpiece… ”

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1. Rigoletto

Verdi and Hugo had much in common, they were both considered artistic and political revolutionaries who used their work to challenge authority. I love them both, they still have a lot to teach us about our attitude to the arts. I wish that opera and drama could be seen once again, as they saw it, as the people’s art-forms.

I had a great time at the opera that night. The Claus Guth’s production and design was enjoyably stripped down, ( I had a few niggles, of course) but the cast was perfect, and you can’t say that often, from the three principals (George Gagnidze, a magnificent Rigoletto; Slávka Zámečnikova, superlative with all the right notes for this lovely role; and Dmitry Korchak, an excitingly lyrical Duke of Mantua) and the conductor, Andrea Battistoni, well, he is Italian, had the exactly right mix of Italianate legato, lilting rhythms and a true sense of drama. This was first class, in an impressive building with its spirit of democratic equality. A true reflection of the French and Giuseppe Verdi and Victor Hugo’s republican ideals.

The music of Un Ballo In Maschera still sounds like it was conceived with the plot in 18th century Europe, with its at times almost Mozartean lightness of touch contrasting with the dark, trombone-focused music of the tragic elements. It is the nearest Verdi got to writing comedy since his failed first opera Un giorno di Regno (A King for a Day) 1840, and before his final triumph, Falstaff in 1893. The singers are truly challenged by this style. the tenor, Riccardo has to combine lyrical grace with dramatic oomph. It was one of Luciano Pavarotti’s ideal parts. The lead soprano voice (Amelia) is one of Verdi’s earliest dramatic soprano roles, with phenomenal demands of range and power with strong low notes matched all the way up to the top of the voice and the need to also use pianissimo as well as fortissimo. It was one of Verdi’s most exciting inventions.

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Cathédrale Notre-Dame

His 1831 novel, Notre-Dame de Paris, known these days mostly as The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, was intended by the author as a manifesto and a plea for the preservation of Paris’ medieval architecture at a time when there were already plans to demolish whole parts of central Paris. After the book’s publication, he was annoyed that Quasimodo and his love for the beautiful Esmerelda, had stolen the limelight from 15th century Paris itself.

If you have the time, here’s a five minute clip of Lon Chaney’s iconic performance. https://youtu.be/KkB2DyoQakU?si=Qu3lYrDvg-IHeL3U

Victor Hugo deserves some credit for the preservation of Notre-Dame, but he lost most of the battles against Baron Haussmann’s virtual demolition of medieval Paris. I think he would have been thrilled by the new Notre-Dame, even though he grieved for many of Paris’ old buildings. If you are interested in his plea for medieval Paris, read the long first chapter of Notre-Dame de Paris. tHugo begins his novel without any of the characters from the story, instead it is a paean, an essay, to what we have lost. Bravo Victor!

Jean-Pierre Leguay is known as a master improviser, an art-form practised by many French organists and his style, as Messiaen’s pupil, isn’t immediately listener-friendly. The cathedral made the ideal listening studio for his pieces which deal in the less than obvious – gradual transformation, fractured sonorities, filigree textures and sudden almost violent sonic events. This is not typical “French organ grandeur” and some members of the audience obviously found it perplexing. His music could be described as sound architecture and, as such, it was definitely heard to its advantage in the very architecture that its composer has known so well for decades. I, for one, was happy to go on this architectural musical voyage in such an awe-inspiring piece if architecture.

Church organists here since then have included Camille Saint-Saëns (1835 – 1921) and Gabriel Fauré (1845 – 1924) and the church is often associated less with Napoleon’s glory but by the glory of its magnificent music. Here is an old recording of an 88 year-old Widor playing his famous Toccata on the organ of la Madeleine in 1932. https://youtu.be/gy0OZoAwkbc?si=nL9CTH62N6ZTLe60

The French tradition of organ music lives on today in, amongst other places, the great organ of Notre Dame Cathedral, where Cavaillé-Coll built the organ there in 1868. Here is a recording of the official blessing of the restored Notre Dame/Cavaillé-Coll organ, played by the cathedral’s current titular organist, Olivier Latry in a controversially avant-garde improvisation at the opening service for the new cathedral. https://youtu.be/F6DO7V6pQyA?si=A5L9huw88LG_ZV-N

French cathedral improvisation can be an acquired taste, as can a lot of avant-garde music, and of course, avant-garde anything. Here is Jean-Pierre Leguay in his improvisation on the same organ at Notre-Dame, but before the fire. https://youtu.be/nPagA6vNke0?si=Z53KZr8nCxXiKZhJ – it certainly shows the range of this magnificent and mercifully saved instrument.

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After the visit, I went for a hot shower, little lie-down and then a couple of drinks while I looked into space. So many work of genius, each one deserving at least a day to itself, but, that is what it is like to be living after at least a milenium of great paintings and in an age of so many magnificent and gigantic international art galleries. I was happy to have seen what i saw, but I know that I will have to return many times to fully appreciate the glory of La Louvre.

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Call me a creature of habit, but I’m unashamed of doing most of the same things here in February this year as I did last May. I enjoyed knowing where the mugs were kept, where was the best place for a coffee and where to go for my morning martial arts practice. There is a small park, a perfect dojo, on the corner of the street and a little café, La Petite Place, on the next corner. Why change if it works?

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In May 2025, I spent two weeks in Paris – I’d been there many times before, mostly for work, but never for such an extended period. I wanted to allow it to get under my skin. I think it worked because, I returned in February this year and plan to make Paris trips regular events in my life. After-all, living in the South of England, France is my nearest neighbour and Paris is almost as accessible for me as London.

I’m doing a bit of a catch-up with my blogs which took a break through most of last year – maybe I was having too much fun. Anyway, the plan is to climb back into the bloggers saddle with some of the events and places that confirmed the special place Paris holds in the thumping organ hidden behind my ribcage.

Let’s start with a dance – not just any dance, but Disco dancing. I was surprised to fine this amazing show at the illustrious Philharmonie de Paris, a complex of concert and exhibition halls, opened in 2015 and designed by Jean Nouvel, one of the many great architects who have added great new buildings to Paris in recent years. It was great to be here in one of the world capitals for the arts and to begin my exploration with Disco – I’m coming out, a substantial exhibition about the history and cultural influence of the phenomenon that was Disco.

Disco quickly became a global phenomenon, bringing together diverse communities under a shared spirit of celebration and freedom inspired by Afro-American roots, the heir to soul, gospel, and funk. Disco was born in small underground clubs in the United States but it more than took off during the 1970s, it became the rock on which dance culture was built and to which survives as an inspiration behind much of popular culture today. And, more than anything, it was thrilling and fun.

https://youtu.be/ItMJ3Zonn3k?si=rZTs9uzKpkz4SCdQ

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I went to Nigerian Modernism, Art and Independence, the impressive exhibition at London’s Tate Modern last week, 19th March. There are a lot of art works here, a vibrant mix of paintings, tapestries, ceramics and sculpture from the 1940s until the end of the 20th Century. In its nine large rooms, the exhibition confounded my Eurocentric assumptions about African, let alone Nigerian art, and also the idea of international Modernism itself.

Many of the artists here were not only members of a society dominated and inhibited by white Imperialism, but they were encouraged and inspired by the less imperialist forces in Britain’s leading art colleges where many of Nigerian artists travelled to study in their formative years, but that is just a part of the story. Modernism for Nigeria meant finding ways of creating new art in the latest international styles but also making modern and particularly Nigerian art from the often repressed ancient traditions of pre-colonial years.

It was all new to me and I was excited to walk through the rooms which almost shouted the story of struggle, celebration and liberation. If I saw Picasso behind some of the works here, then I was humbled by Jusuf Grillo’s frustrated question – why should his work be considered Picasso-inspired when Picasso’s Modernism was so obviously inspired by African art.

I was at Tate Modern just after the President Bola Tinubu of Nigeria was there on the closing day of his state visit to the UK – a bonus for me was seeing all the Nigerians in traditional clothing, and, not for the first time, making me wish that we old-fashioned Brits could be a bit more exuberant in our dress sense.

A few years ago, my Nigerian friend, Nnamdi Nwachukwu, introduced me to a number of fellow Nigerian artists and writers and opened my mind to the charisma and energy of Nigerian culture. Nigeria is on my bucket-list of must-see places, so there was no question in my mind about not coming to see this show. The vibrancy that I discovered through my friend was everywhere at this exhibition. There is so much to recommend, but, maybe if you see no other Nigerian artist’s work it has to be Ben Enwonwu (1917 – 1994).

It was great also to see a poet featured amongst the fine artists here – displayed on the wall but also relayed as a sound recording. Come Thunder by Christopher Okigbo is a classic from this period of Nigeria’s struggle towards independence. His voice is a warning too and a reminder of the suffering and difficulties of the journey towards freedom.

Here are some more of the exhibits in this action-packed show that have stayed with me long after I made my way back outside on a sunny, but, sadly, no longer a Nigerian, London afternoon. Don’t miss this show – it runs until 11 May.

President Tinubu’s comments about the Tate modern exhibition: ‘The theme of the exhibition, Nigeria’s modernism, is more than just a title for an art show. It is a testament to revolution. It tells the story of a generation of Nigerian giants, who in the middle of the 20th century refused to be despised but chose to define themselves.’

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I spent two weeks in the Eternal City of Rome this January. The first part is here https://wolfiewolfgang.com/two-weeks-in-rome-part-one/ I’ve been here on numerous occasions over the years, either for work or for passing visits en route to elsewhere. I’d been to the Sistine Chapel (unforgettable, of course) to St Peter’s, also for work, and to a number of art museums and I’ve had a lot of good Roman meals, but I wanted to spend a longer time here and let it get under my skin. I think I succeeded.

I’ll begin the second part of these blogs about my Roman trip at one its most famous monuments, the Colosseum, Il Colosseo (AD 80), the largest ancient amphitheatre ever built, and a place with a bloody history familiar to us all from stories and films about the gladiators. It is an extraordinary place and, for all the gruesome stories about blood-thirsty massacres of slaves, prisoners and the early Christian martyrs, it’s also the site of mass picnics and other less sadistic entertainments. But, and it’s a big but, you can’t avoid feeling a scary, even shocked, connection to all those slaughtered victims in what was in reality a blood sport. Would we have cheered too, I wonder, if we were in those massive audiences for what were highly dramatised public executions? We don’t know the answer. I had only been past it before in taxis or buses before this, and, of course, when I finally got here, it had to do more than just rain, it deluged. You get weather in Rome during January.

It’s an amazingly well-preserved ruin and there’s more than enough here of its remains to get the feeling of dread and excitement that was felt here two thousand years ago.

It’s just a short walk from the Colosseum to the Roman Forum, Il Foro Romano, another expansive set of classical ruins, once the centre of the Roman Empire. Roman citizens those days called it simply the Forum Magnum, or the Forum.

How the mighty have fallen, I thought, looking at the remains of Ancient Roman glory. I was here on the day that Donald Trump was inaugurated, for the second time, as American president in Washington’s Roman-inspired Capitol building. Seeing the ruins in the rain with those broken statues of some of the Caesars, added to my despair at the American election, but then I thought that those broken statues should be seen as symbols for what will happen one day to the latest world tyrant. Is there hope for us all in the Fall of Rome? Yes! Nothing lasts forever, not even in the Eternal City.

I had brought my writer’s jotting book with me and, here in Rome, I wrote some Fibonacci Poems, Fibs, on the subject of Rome and would-be emperors. They were published in the February 2025 issue of The Fib Review. https://www.musepiepress.com/fibreview/colin_bell2.html

Feeling less depressed, I couldn’t resist giving my tai-chi practice a go here at the Forum Magnum, thinking that we would have had to learn how to defend ourselves in Ancient Rome.

I visited another famous Roman landmark, known as the Spanish Steps, (La Scalinata di Trinità dei Monti), (built in 1725). The Trinità die Monti is its Italian name. These 135 steps lead to the church of It comes from the church of Trinità die Monti the top, but the steps also lead down to the Spanish embassy to the Holy See, the Palazzo Monaldeschi. So thus the Spanish Steps, familiar from books (Tender is the Night by F.Scott Fitzgerald, 1933 and The Roman Spring of Mrs Stone by Tennessee Williams, 1950), and movies (mostly famously, Roman Holiday directed by William Wyler, with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck, 1953). It is one of the most visited parts of the city. As with the Trevi Fountain, this is a place for lovers, romantics and/or just whimsical selfies. We all have our own internal movies, so why not indulge our imagination here for a moment when we can.

I hadn’t realised was the the Spanish Steps are also right next to the house where the tubercular English Romantic poet, John Keats (1795 – 1821), came for his health but really to die, at the tragically young age of just 25.

Here, in one of the most crowded parts of Rome, the poet’s house was practically empty of visitors which was excellent for me, a dedicated Keats lover since school days.

The room where Keats died can’t help but invoke the tragedy of the young genius’ death, even though the contents of the room itself all had to be burnt because of the health regulations in Rome at the time.

As a museum, it’s a splendid reminder of how much we still have of Keats’ work but, sadly, also how much we might have had if he’d lived to a full age.  Standing in the room where he died, can turn us all into Romantics.

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

 To take into the air my quiet breath;

 Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

 To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

 While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

 In such an ecstasy!

(John Keats: Ode to a Nightingale.)

One of the poet’s last letters is preserved here. It’s a brief and matter-of-fact epistle to his friend about the local doctor’s advice for the now rapidly ailing poet to go out. It was note to the English painter, Joseph Severn (1793 – 1879), who looked after Keats until his death a short time later. Looking down on the Spanish Steps from John Keats’ window, means that I will always associate the poet with this otherwise joyful place.

After Keats, yes, let’s think poetic, but also, maybe go for a refreshing and very Italian glass of Campari.

Just off the Campo Marzio, another of those grand Roman squares, is one of Rome’s many churches, the Basilica Santa Maria del Popolo (Basilica of Holy Mary of the People). It might not look that special from outside, but inside, on permanent display, are two masterpieces by the great Italian painter Caravaggio (1571 – 1610). This was one of three emergency ecclesiastical stops that I planned on my essential Caravaggio tour when I wanted to see all the Caravaggio paintings in Rome. It will surprises me that you can just walk into one of these churches and, yes, here’s another Caravaggio.

At this Basilica are two of the artist’s most dramatic paintings, The Conversion of St Paul (1601) and The Crucifixion of St Peter (1601).

At the Basilica Sant’Agostino, behind another discrete exterior, is another of his masterpieces, Madonna di Loreto (1606)

Here on one of the nave’s pillars, it is easy to miss this mural by Raphael, The Prophet Isaiah (1512). If you’re not careful in Rome, you practically trip over great Italian Renaissance or Baroque paintings everywhere you turn.

In the French church of San Luigi dei Francesi, (St Louis of the French), there are three more Caravaggios, commissioned works on theme of St Matthew, and painted between 1599 and 1602.

The centre piece, with St Matthew and an angel, is known as The Inspiration of St Matthew.

On a moody January day, it was pleasant getting to the Museum of Modern Art (Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna) without having to get involved in the motor traffic. Walking through the gardens of the Villa Borghese, even at this time of year, is a breath of fresh air, literally, after all those albeit beautiful Baroque churches.

Here there is a permanent collection of mostly Italian paintings and sculpture from the late 19th century until the present. The late 19th century and early 20th century works are crammed together on the walls, 19th century style, but they are mostly visible to more than just a glancing eye. It was tempting to spend more time than I had in this section, but there was more room on the gallery’s walls than I have space for in this blog.

I discovered Italian artists that I wasn’t familiar with in the gallery’s current exhibition, Il Tempo di Futurismo (The Time of Futurism) exhibition, marking the 80th anniversary of the death of Filippo Tommaso Marinetti, Futurism’s founder, which ran at the gallery until the end of April this year.

I was drawn to the works by Sardinian modernist, Mario Sironi (1885 – 1961), whose reputation, like those of other Futurist artists have been clouded by their association with Mussolini’s Italian Fascist movement. Maybe now, after nearly a century, we should try to see the good things in the art of this period without always dwelling on the negative and disturbing trappings of history.

The exhibition was far from being only brutal and alarming, as in this room devoted to the sparkling light-saturated work of Piero Durazzo, or the photographic section on cinematic photographs of Luca Campigotto.

The relationship in the first half of the 20th century between man and machine, is shown in the most challenging and exciting exhibits in this show, which also includes some of the machines themselves – early aeroplanes and racing cars appealing to anyone who has ever liked making model aeroplanes or cars. Aeroplanes, for good or for ill, have a significant place in this exhibition, none less than a number paintings imagined from the pilot’s view of view from his cockpit, presumably on bombing raids. I haven’t seen anything like this before, that mix of Futurism, art deco abstraction, a touch of daring, and, I have to say, 1930s Fascist agitprop. This is a show that definitely made think and re-think about some of the artists, like the American poet, Ezra Pound, who working and even inspired under the shadow of Italian fascism.

Another quite different exhibition was showing at the same time, but across the Borghese gardens at the Galleria Borghese. It was quite a distance from 20th century The Time of Futurism to Poetry and Painting in the 17th Century. Giovan Battista Marino and the Marvellous Passion.

The ‘Marvelous Passion’ in the title was felt by the greatest Italian poet of the 17th century, Giovan Battista Marino (1569 – 1625), the author of an epic poem Adone (1623) about the love between Venus and Adonis. Marino also wrote an encyclopaedic poetry collection of 624 poems dedicated to, and paired with, an equal number of Baroque works of art, La Galeria (1619). The book is a series of reflections on the relationship between poetry and art. I feel slightly embarrassed to admit that this show was, at least on first glance, more my kind of thing than Italian Futurism. Call me old-fashioned, no, I won’t admit to that, I’ve learnt to love some of those Futurist pictures, and I’m certainly not anti-Modernist. But, I write poetry, maybe not as well as Marino, but I’ve even tried to write a few poems in the Italian language. I’m learning to speak the language and I have had a life-long fascination with Italian epic poetry, Taso, Ariosto and Boccaccio in particular. Add to that my enthusiasm for Italian art from the 14th to the 17th century, then I was always going to be drawn to this show. The exhibition includes paintings and sculptures from Titian to Tintoretto, Correggio to Carracci, from Rubens to Poussin, with Marino’s poems side-by-side. ‘Marvelous’ indeed, and, because of the subject matter, it is sexy too.

The exhibition places quotes from Marino’s work next to the art that he admired on the same subject matter. Here the story of Venus, the goddess of Love and her young lover Adonis, are shown in the sculpture by Cristoforo Stati and in the painting by Jacopo Palma next to apt quotes from Marino’s epic, La Galeria.

Next, and in pride of place, is Bernini’s wonderful Apollo and Daphne, seen from all angles because it is not just so beautiful, but well frightening too. Daphne, the beautiful naiad, a water nymph, from Roman poet Ovid’s story, is desired, maybe loved, by Apollo, but she has been cursed by a jealous Eros to loath sex. She tries to escape from Apollo advances and saved by being turned into a laurel tree by her father, Peneas, a river god. The metamorphosis, to use Ovid’s word for it, is an unforgettable mix of the shocking and the erotic, also caught in a moment when stone is turned into movement.

After so much passion on display here in these rooms at the Galleria Borghese, I moved on to another part of the gallery, the Silenus Room for a display of the gallery’s Caravaggio collection which matches the Marino exhibition perfectly. My epic walking tour of Rome’s Caravaggios continues.

After the famous Galleria Borghese, I wasn’t expecting to find another major art gallery on Rome’s busiest shopping street, the Via Corso, the Doria Pamphili Gallery which have three more Caravaggio paintings. I had to interrupt a trip around the bargain-laden clothes shops that line this bustling boulevard with every store declaring that there was 70% off everything – the ultimate January sales. sales. I didn’t buy anything here, it was time to look inside this relatively unsung palazzo.

Sure enough, the three Caravaggio paintings were here, in their own room, far from the shopping crowds outside. They are early works that already show the artist’s fascination with awkward poses, radical perspective, and ambiguous facial expressions.

Interesting as it was to see these three early Caravaggio works, geniuses are never boring, but, I have to admit that the star work here is definitely not a Caravaggio, but the Portrait of Pope Innocent X (Cardinal Pamphili) by the Spanish master Diego Velázquez. Portraitist supreme, Velázquez shows us a far from saintly pope, so sinister in fact, that I wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark Roman alleyway, or even in the great cathedral church of St Peter’s.

A much brighter and bigger alley leads to the St Peter’s….well, they say all roads lead to Rome, and it was out of the question, while I am here, not to go back to the big church at the centre of Christendom. Before I go in, just one last reference to Caravaggio. I wasn’t visiting the Vatican Museum on this trip, but if I had, I could have seen one last Caravaggio that is here in Rome, one of his greatest too. It’s always good to leave something special for another day. The Entombment of Christ (1603), with its figure of the dead Christ, shares the pose and the tragic pathos of Michelangelo’s Pietà, a sculpture much admired by Caravaggio. It is one of the greatest of paintings. The Michelangelo Pietà, housed next-door, was one of my main reasons for returning to St Peter’s.

And so to St Peter’s itself. It was a clear January day with a perfect blue sky. Pope Francis wasn’t here, he had been unwell, and in a month he would begin his long stint in hospital being treated for pneumonia, I hadn’t been inside the Vatican since the time of Pope John Paul II, and I didn’t realise that very soon there was to be another new pope, Leo XIV.

The scale of it all is still overwhelming, St Peter’s Square is truly vast when seen from the cathedral steps, and the interior is impressive beyond my words. Leo XIV must have gasped when he walked out onto the balcony just a week ago from when I am writing this. There was hope and a relief for us all to see a modest and caring American becoming a world leader

For all the magnificence of the cathedral, nothing can be compete with the human-sized statue in a side chapel – one of the wonders of the world.

It had been a long walk from my apartment near The Pantheon, and I needed to sit for a while before the return journey. Looking for a seat, I found this chapel not far from the exit. I admired the altar’s painting of St Sebastian by Domenichino (1631) and sat here as people, in groups or alone, came in to kneel at the altar. I didn’t realise until later that under the altar here is the tomb of Pope John Paul II (1920 -2005), but I could see that this was obviously a pilgrim’s destination. A statue of the sainted pope sits watching from on his throne to the side. I am not a Roman Catholic, I wasn’t always impressed by Pope John Paul II’s announcements, but I could also admire his courage and charisma. Whatever I feel about catholicism, I felt something here, more than just being rested and refreshed.

Outside, the sky was red, a shepherd’s delight, an awe-inspiring sight in an awesome place.

Impressive too was the flood-lit Castel Sant’Angelo on the other side of the River Tiber, across from St Peter’s. It was originally built by the Emperor Hadrian for his own mausoleum. It is another Rotunda in a more brutal style than the Pantheon, and it has served as a forbidding symbol of Imperial and Vatican power over the centuries. The ashes of Emperor Hadrian and all his successors were all buried here until the year 217. The last urn belonged to the assassinated Emperor Caracalla, one of the most tyrannical of all Roman Emperors. He set the bar so high that none of his successors could compete whit his reputation for cruelty. After the Fall of Rome, the castle/mausoleum became a papal prison a carrying on the tradition of cruelty, you might think. Executions were carried out there in a small inner courtyard, as in the last act of Puccini’s opera, Tosca. The opera that had begun its story down the road from here at the Basilica Sant’Andrea di Valle, as I described in part one of this blog. The tragic heroine, Floria Tosca, jumps to her death from the tower after her lover Mario Cavaradossi was tortured and then executed there by firing squad. Before he is shot, he sings another, his second, famous aria from up there, ‘È lucevan le stelle’ (‘The stars were shining’). Knowing he will die, he sings that he has never loved life so much. The second tenor aria in the opera, and the second of the two greatest of some of Puccini’s greatest arias for tenor. I couldn’t help humming it on my way back to the Pantheon. Here is Jonas Kaufmann again from the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden.

E muoio disperato!

E non ho amato mai tanto la vita,

I die in desperation

and have never loved life so much!

https://lyricstranslate.com/en/e-lucevan-le-stelle-stars-were-shining.html

It wouldn’t be fair to Rome, if I didn’t finish this blog with a record of all the fun I’ve had in Roman restaurants over these two weeks. Rome has the most extraordinary history, often bloody and tyrannical. It has a genius culture beyond compare, often in spite of the bloody history and an architectural history that has defined in some way almost every building that has been designed since. All of that makes it an unmissable city, but one of the main reasons why anyone should think of coming here is what it is like today. The food, the wine, the good humour and the sheer fizz of eating out in this city, makes it party town. I can’t wait until I am lucky enough to return.

After dinner, there will be a final leisurely stroll, known as a passeggiata, back via a floodlit Pantheon, to the apartment and bed. Arriverderci Roma!

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