Excited anticipation kept Irene awake during the whole night previous
to the great occasion. She rose with the dawn, and laid ready her black
dress and black lace veil, the traditional costume of all pilgrims
received by the Pope.
The ceremony was to take place at eleven o’clock, but at ten Irene drove
up to the Vatican, hoping to be one of the first to arrive. Alas! an
extended line of carriages had already long been blocking the way to
the Portone di Bronzo, and, advancing slowly one by one, setting down
ladies in black lace and gentlemen in dress clothes. Like Irene, they had
all counted on arriving first, and all contemplated, with undisguised
astonishment, the dense crowd slowly making its way up the stairs. The
predominating impression among this crowd was far less one of religious
emotion than of excited curiosity. There were many Americans and Germans,
who had come to see a rare sight, in order to boast about it later on in
their own countries. The eyes of these tourists sparkled with delight as
they gazed at the papal guards, who, in their mediæval costumes and their
peculiar hats, looked as if they had just stepped out of pictures, as
indeed did also the papal lackeys, in cherry-coloured brocade, with silk
stockings and buckled shoes.
Irene loved the Vatican. This mediæval fortress, with its numberless
houses, towers, courtyards, cemeteries, and gardens appealed strongly
to her imagination. She loved, perhaps most of all, the splendid halls
with their frescoes and their beautiful antique statues. This, she
thought, was _true_ luxury, in comparison with which the luxury of modern
palaces, with their commonplace silk-panelled walls and their carpets and
pictures, grew pale and seemed almost vulgar. In the magnificent halls of
the Vatican the walls and ceilings were covered with frescoes by Raphael
and Michael Angelo, and the ornaments consisted of antique porphyry
sarcophagi, ancient mosaics, such as have never been equalled in more
modern times, and colossal marble vases and fonts, excavated from ancient
baths and shrines. Modern art has been able to add nothing to all these
priceless treasures.
And now Irene was gazing with rapture at the frescoed walls of
the immense Sala Clementina, into which, little by little, the
extraordinarily mixed assemblage, whose like one can hardly meet
anywhere, was making its way. There were foreigners shivering in
furs; aristocratic Roman ladies in elegant black dresses, long white
gloves, and family pearls; prelates; cardinals; nuns in white starched
headdresses; Capucins in sandals, and with ropes round their waists;
little girls in white dresses and lace veils, with curls framing their
flushed, excited faces; officers of the papal guard; dominicans in
white cloth cassocks; attachés of the various foreign embassies in gold
embroidered uniforms—all this formed one heterogeneous, palpitating mass
of humanity. The variety of the crowd pleased and interested Irene.
It struck her that all this was just as it should be in the Palace of
the Roman Pontiff, the only sovereign who acknowledged neither rank nor
position nor class distinctions, and who did not surround himself with a
Chinese wall, guarded by a handful of privileged people, in no way more
deserving than their fellows. “It is in most countries these privileged
classes,” thought Irene, “who by energetically pushing to a safe distance
from the precincts of the throne all who really work for the good of
their country, always manage artificially to create enemies for their
King.” The Pope believed in a very different policy. He was accessible to
everybody, without distinction of nationality, faith, or social position,
and he was ready to receive and to bless everyone alike. Perhaps, indeed,
it may be owing to this wise policy that no attempt has ever been made
on his life, in spite of the fact that the Vatican employs neither spies
nor secret guards. Such a Court, thought Irene, should have existed under
Constantine the Great or Louis IX.
The ceremony of presenting consecrated candles to the Pope (_dei ceri
benedetti_) was to take place in the neighbouring Sala del Trono. At
one end of this lofty, narrow, frescoed hall stood, under a baldaquin,
the golden throne of the Pope; at the other end, a great crucifix
supported by an angel. On either side of the central passage, kept
clear by the Swiss guards, were long benches, on which were already
seated various pilgrims, all trying to get as near as possible to the
throne. The best places had already long been taken by clergy of all
nationalities, with enormous opera-glasses and firm intentions to
miss not the smallest detail of the interesting spectacle. Subdued
excitement reigned supreme in the half-darkened hall, with its drawn red
blinds and its sparse, electric lights. There was a hushed murmur of
low-toned conversation—everyone spoke in a whisper, except, of course,
the Americans, who exchanged silly little remarks and impressions in
unceremonious, strident tones. A Frenchman, with a small pointed beard
was, in a loud voice, relating to someone something about an inn in
Naples, where one could get excellent wine and macaroni. With the
impudence of a dull-minded Atheist, he smacked his lips over various
details, keenly enjoying the paradox contained in the mere fact of
discussing such things at the Vatican.
Here and there in the crowd, however, could also be seen the rapturous
faces of youthful priests and young girls. Full of religious exaltation,
trembling with emotion, they kept their shining eyes fixed on the door
before which stood the papal guards.
At last there was a wave of movement. The crowd rose, made as though
it would fall on its knees, but thought better of the intention, and
remained standing. Surrounded by his Court, His Holiness, in white
raiment and a little white cap, passed to the throne, and, throwing a
quick glance over the assemblage, took his place.
Along the central passage, between the benches, a procession of priests
advanced, two and two, holding in their hands long painted tapers,
covered with funny little fringed extinguishers. They approached the
throne, handed the tapers to attendants, fell on their knees, and kissed
the Pope’s ring. On the beautiful face of the Pontiff shone a radiant
smile. He said a few words to each one, sometimes whispered in their
ears, and often laughed. This was not the face of a mighty sovereign,
but only that of a good, kind old man, who had long ago learnt that all
sorrows, all dreams, all hopes, are soon over, and that life is short,
and does not contain anything specially good or attractive. He was deeply
sorry for all those expectant pilgrims, exciting themselves about nothing
at all, awaiting Heaven knows what, and needlessly tiring themselves out;
and all he could do was to help them with a kind word, a warm glance,
and with the love that illumined his beautiful features. It seemed to
Irene that, for the first time in centuries, a truly Christian pastor
reigned in Rome, and one who in spirit resembled the first Christian
apostles, the builders of the Church. What a striking contrast between
this Pope and his surrounding Court! They, too, were all smiling at the
pilgrims; but what hypocrisy, what falseness and flattery, breathed in
those smiles! Their crafty faces were cold and indifferent. For them,
this ceremony was only one of the countless comedies in which they had
constantly to play parts. Two of these papal courtiers, both still young
and handsome, were obviously posing before the aristocratic Roman ladies,
among whom they probably had admiring friends.
The ceremony lasted a long time. The tapers, in the hands of the priests,
moved along in endless procession. Everyone was tired and hot, all faces
were flushed. The courtiers around the throne left off smiling, and
made no attempt to hide their fatigue. Only the Pope alone smiled as
warmly and caressingly as before upon each man who knelt before him. For
him, this was no ceremony, this was a human service, which he rendered
joyfully.
At last, the final tapers were presented. His Holiness rose, blessed the
bowing crowd, and left the hall. There was a general rush for the door.
Close to Irene, a young French girl was heatedly disputing some point
with her mother.
“Mais, il t’a donné sa bénédiction, ma chère,” persuaded the mother. “He
has blessed us all. What more do you want?”
But the girl was not consoled, and only looked sadly at the door, behind
which the Pope had disappeared.
Irene understood: she, too, felt sad at the thought that she would never
again see that beautiful Christian smile.
V
The same evening, Irene announced to Père Etienne that all her doubts
were at an end, and that she had decided to take the Veil. She would now
only ask him to find her a suitable convent.
“There are many orders of nuns in Rome,” answered the Father,
reflectively, “each with a particular aim and purpose. There are sisters
who nurse the sick, and others who educate children. It seems to me that
the order most suited in your case is that of the Sœurs Mauves. They lead
very secluded lives, pray a great deal, and keep watch, night and day,
over the Holy Sacrament. You can see them every day at Vespers in their
Church of Santa Petronilla in the Via Gallia.”
Trembling with emotion, Irene turned her steps towards this convent,
half afraid of her own first impression. When she entered, the church
was almost empty. A few stray old men and old women were dreaming on
chairs, waiting for the service. Like most modern Roman churches, Santa
Petronilla was ablaze with gilding and profusely decorated with pictures.
On either side, up above, were galleries of quite theatrical appearance,
painted mauve and white, the colours of the convent. A transparent, high,
carved partition divided the church into two parts: the one nearest the
entrance for the public, the other, nearest the altar, for the nuns. At
present, all was dark and empty, only one feeble taper was burning on the
altar.
Irene took a seat in the first row, quite close to the partition, and
prepared to contemplate her future surroundings. It was a long time
before the silence was broken by the slow, dull sound of the church
bells. The altar was suddenly brightly illuminated, and a procession
of nuns appeared through the door. They entered in couples, knelt for
a moment, one couple at a time, before the altar, and then slowly,
gracefully, with soundless footsteps, made their way to their places.
They were dressed in white robes with long trains, and wide mauve
borders. White veils hid their faces, and fell at the back in graceful
folds over their trains. These veils were so thick, that it was
impossible to distinguish the ages of their wearers. With soft white
hands, the nuns clasped the golden crosses on their breasts, as they
slowly sank into their places, threw back their veils, and, directing
their gaze to the altar, remained immovable in the most graceful of
poses. Somewhere in the distance an organ began to play, and an invisible
choir sang a prayer, or, rather, a beautiful Italian operatic air.
Something long forgotten stirred restlessly in Irene’s heart. “But these
are my vestal virgins!” she thought, with a thrill of emotion—those
beloved vestal virgins that had always so deeply appealed to her
imagination, and whose disappearance she had so often regretted. It
seemed to her that no reforms and no amount of progress could ever
give back to women the high position occupied in ancient Rome by the
handmaidens of the goddess Vesta. Everyone had bowed before them; with
a movement of the hand they had the power to pardon prisoners condemned
to death; they were present at all ceremonies, games, and performances,
and formed the principal ornament of the Courts of the Roman Emperors.
And here, suddenly, Irene had found them again, less mighty and less
dazzling, perhaps, but more mysterious instead, and more poetical.
The service continued, and the church gradually filled with people:
elegant ladies, dirty workmen, little old men and little old women, even
small children brought there by religious nurses. They all joined in the
hymns, and sang with the nuns. There was something strange and touching
in the mingling of all those hoarse, old, untrained voices with the soft
music of the choir, descending, like the song of angels, from the mauve
gallery. Many of the worshippers were weeping bitterly, on their knees.
From time to time the singing stopped, and one of the nuns, opening a
prayer-book, read a prayer, in a soft, melodious voice. Irene watched
her future companions with great emotion. They seemed so dignified, so
refined, so completely _comme il faut_; life among them, indeed, promised
to be charming. Nothing in their habits and manners could ever jar on her
or shock her. She remembered, with a shudder, the Russian nuns who wander
from village to village, collecting money for the building of churches,
lifting their dirty dresses high, and showing their equally dirty, red,
rough, thick peasant legs.
The service came to an end. Slowly, gracefully, the white dignified
figures of the Sœurs Mauves floated away and disappeared. In their
places appeared several fat, active little nuns, in short black robes,
with enormous mauve bows and little white veils. They extinguished the
candles, running from one candlestick to another, never forgetting their
reverend genuflexion when passing the altar.
“Serving-women,” thought Irene, and the thought pleased her that she
would not, even in the convent, cease to be a lady accustomed to the
services of a maid. For a moment she was ashamed of the thought, but
immediately justified herself: “Of course all idea of dirty work is
impossible in those long snowy robes, those white slippers, and floating,
shimmering veils!”
It was a still, warm evening, and the stars were beginning to show
themselves in the dark blue sky when Irene left the church. There was
peace in her soul as she breathed in the balmy Southern air. “Thank God!”
she said to herself. “At last I have found my vocation. What matter
if I do not sufficiently believe? The principal thing is to sing, to
read prayers, and to touch the hearts of all those unhappy, suffering
people, who come to pray with the nuns, believing in their purity and
saintliness.”
Almost all unmarried women of a certain age suffer secret torments
from the fact that they have actually no place in society. Irene was
no exception to this rule, and she was happy at the thought that now,
at last, she might be of some use in the service of humanity. To have
a special uniform—an idea always dear to the Russian heart—was also a
great attraction. In imagination she tried on the picturesque dress of
those modern vestal virgins, making up her mind to be graceful, to float
about like a white spirit, to sing, and to read prayers melodiously.
From that day, Irene never missed a single evening service in the Via
Gallia. The nuns were inaccessible to outsiders, and no stranger was ever
admitted to the convent—an additional fact to play upon Irene’s fancy.
The convent stood on a hill. Luxurious palms and fragrant Roman pines
leaned over its high garden walls, and Irene saw, in imagination, the
small, interior courtyard, with its covered verandah, its slim, carved
columns, its murmuring fountain, its Southern foliage and flowers. She
pictured to herself the early morning; she heard the measured tones of
the melodious convent bells calling the sisters to prayer; then she
thought of the evening, of a golden Roman sunset, a purple sky, faint,
glistening stars, and the _Ave Maria_.…
How beautiful, how poetical, seemed her future life, with its prayers,
its meditations, its rapturous exaltation, its Gospel-readings, its
soft singing, its incense! An enchanted existence in a Southern clime, a
sweet, mystical dream, and then—death, followed by a probable awakening
to some new and glorious life!
The news of Irene’s decision created a great sensation in her _pension_.
Although nothing was definitely settled between herself and Père Etienne,
everyone else knew which order she had chosen, and on which day she was
to be received. Some even went so far as to name the dressmaker who
was making her convent robes. They all constantly stared at Irene, and
pointed her out to their visitors.
One afternoon, she happened to accompany Père Etienne to the hall-door,
at the hour when the complicated business of afternoon tea was in
progress. Small bamboo tables were scattered about between Chinese
screens and immense palms, and at one of these tables, some distance
away from the door, sat a good-natured, pleasant little Russian old
lady, giving tea to a fellow-countryman, a tall, handsome, energetic,
young-looking Russian of about forty, with an occasional grey thread in
his thick, dark hair. The old lady, with a whispered remark, pointed
Irene out to her visitor. He looked round with some curiosity, and then
muttered, with a frown:
“What is this stupid, new fashion? Our women seem unable to look at a
Roman priest without renouncing Orthodoxy!”