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“I’m here for professional reasons only,” I said coolly.
My rejection only made his smile grow bigger. “Of course, of course. Right this way, then.”
He gestured for me to follow him.
As we walked, I looked over at the tourists. “Seems quite busy.”
“It is. The Galleria is only open in the evenings on certain summer nights. I’m sure most of these people reserved their tickets weeks ago.”
“Then how arewegetting in?”
“It helps when you tip the doorman a thousand euros.”
“Don’t you mean ‘bribe’?” I asked sardonically.
“Tomato, to-mah-to,” he replied as we ascended the steps.
We walked up to a security guard, who nodded at Niccolo and waved us both through.
As we walked through the gift shop, Niccolo started talking. “This is one of my favorite places in all of Rome. It was originally a country villa built by Cardinal Scipione Borghese in the 1600s – a rascal with a passion for art.
“He commissioned hundreds of paintings and sculptures from some of Italy’s best post-Renaissance artists and wouldstop atnothingto obtain works by the great Renaissance masters.
“It’s said he lusted after a painting by Raphael that was the altarpiece in a small convent. When the nuns refused to give Borghese the painting, he hired a couple of thieves to break in and steal it for his private collection.”
“Sounds like a man after your own heart,” I said.
“The Catholic Church was the originalCosa Nostra,”Niccolo said cheerfully. “Or, at least, men like Borghese would have fit right in. But despite his methods, the Cardinal assembled one of the most astounding private art collections in history – and, in a bit of ‘keeping up with the Joneses,’ inspired hundreds of wealthy Romans to commission equally great pieces of art.”
We stepped into a room of pure opulence. The walls were made of yellow travertine, with marble and gold filigree everywhere. Alcoves within the walls contained elegant white sculptures of human figures. The domed ceiling high overhead was covered with stunning paintings. The floor was a geometric mosaic of different shades of marble – reddish brown, tan, white, and golden yellow.
No matter what direction I looked, there were so many beautiful things that it boggled the mind.
“There’s too much to see here – an entire week’s worth – so I’m just going to show you a handful of my favorites,” Niccolo said. “Come.”
We walked into another room with a stunning sculpture of an athletic man, frozen a split second before launching a rock at us with a sling.
“If you ask anyone outside Italy, they’ll tell you that the greatest Italian sculptor was Michelangelo,” Niccolo said. “Ask any Italian, and they’ll tell you Bernini was even better.
“He was born a few decades after Michelangelo died, right after the end of the Renaissance. Here’s his version of David,depicted the instant before he defeats Goliath. Borghese used to have this piece right in front of a doorway, hidden from view until you walked in. When he brought guests into the room, they were startled – as thoughtheywere Goliath, about to be killed by David’s stone.
“But while this one is wonderful, there’s another statue by Bernini I love even more.”
We walked into the next room, where the centerpiece was a statue of a bearded man clutching a struggling woman held aloft in the air.
“The Rape of Proserpina,” Niccolo said as he stared admiringly. “Better known by her Greek name, Persephone. You can see Pluto – or Hades – in the act of carrying her off to the Underworld.
“Notice the details – Hades’ cackling face. Persephone’s look of anguish and despair.” Niccolo pointed up at her face. “Look – there’s a single tear on her cheek. Can you see it? See the shadow of it? No one had ever sculpted a detail that small before – not before Bernini, and seldom since. Look at Hades’ fingers pressing into her skin as he grabs her, like the marble is actually skin!”
It was true – I could see a single tear trailing down Persephone’s frightened face, frozen mid-scream.
And Hades’ fingers created dimples in the stone, as though Persephone was alive.
“Look at the emotion on her face! It’s astounding,” Niccolo said reverentially.
It was hard not to be overcome by such an amazing work of art – both its beauty and the terror in Persephone’s expression.
“Come – you have to see the paintings by Caravaggio,” Niccolo said, taking me by the hand and pulling me along.