Irene had to agree, and punctually at seven o’clock she presented herself
at the Cardinal’s house. Her conscience reproached her a little for
troubling a man so occupied with important affairs, but she had heard
so much about this famous Cardinal that curiosity won the day over her
scruples.
Cardinal R⸺ was one of the most distinguished members of the Papal
Court. He was nicknamed “le Pape manqué,” because at the last election
he had received the greatest number of votes. His pronounced French
sympathies, however, had, in the eyes of the other Catholic countries,
stood in his way, with the result that, in answer to his election, the
Austro-Hungarian Ambassador had announced the “veto” of the Austrian
Emperor. The amazed Cardinals, though they had long forgotten this
ancient privilege of the Austrian crown, were obliged to submit, and the
next candidate was elected Pope. It is a characteristic fact that Pius X.
was so annoyed at his election that, on becoming Pope against his will,
his first action was to annul for ever the Austrian right of “veto.”
Remembering this episode, Irene involuntarily felt a great respect for
the man who had had the courage of his opinions and sympathies to the
extent of paying for them by losing the Papacy. Such honesty seemed
hardly in keeping with the traditional spirit of intrigue and deceit with
which the Papal court was supposed to be permeated, and which Irene had
so frequently heard discussed in Russia.
The Cardinal lived in a small detached house, within the precincts of the
Vatican, and Irene was struck, by no means for the first time, by the
resemblance between these Vatican houses and courtyards, and the inner
courts and arch-priest’s dwellings of Russian monasteries. There was in
both the same sense of chill and isolation and lifelessness. Even the
waiting-room into which a slow old servant led Irene was exactly like
the room of a Russian monastic priest. The same clumsy wooden furniture
upholstered in red velvet, the same religious pictures. The only things
that were missing were the typical and inevitable strip of canvas that
runs like a pathway right across the floors of all our Russian priestly
houses, and the extraordinary variety of worsted cushions, with their
wonderful patterns of fantastic animals and flowers, embroidered for our
priests by pious Russian parishioners.
A young secretary twice passed through the waiting-room, throwing, each
time, a quick but scrutinizing glance at Irene. Finally, unable to
restrain himself any longer, he approached her, with a charming smile:
“Voudriez vous me dire, Mademoiselle,” he inquired, “le motif pour lequel
vous désirez voir Son Eminence?”
Irene did not know how to answer. She really could not say that she had
come simply to pacify a troublesome friend!
“J’ai entendu parler de la sympathie que Son Eminence éprouve pour les
Russes,” she stammered vaguely.
“Oh oui! Oh oui!” said the secretary, nodding his head. “Les sympathies
de Son Eminence pour la Russie sont bien connues. Cependant,
Mademoiselle, il me semble que vous devez avoir une raison plus … plus …”
The secretary was evidently at a loss to find the right word. Noticing
that he was regarding her enormous muff with interest, Irene remembered
that an attempt to assassinate a highly-placed personage, had recently
been made in Rome.
“I understand your anxiety,” she remarked. “There are visitors who arrive
with a bomb in their muffs!” With these words, as though accidentally,
she made a movement with her muff, bringing it close to the secretary’s
eyes. He glanced sharply into it, and was evidently appeased.
“Oh! certes, Son Eminence sera très satisfaite de vous voir,
Mademoiselle,” he said. “Veuillez attendre quelques instants au salon;
Son Eminence ne tardera pas à rentrer.”
The waiting-room, in the meantime, was filling with people. An old
Monsignor entered, and Irene bowed to him. To her surprise, however,
he not only did not reply, but never even glanced in her direction.
Another priest entered, and again the same thing happened. Then came
three Capuchin monks who made obvious efforts to look at anything but
Irene, and sat down at the furthest possible point from her. The proud,
sensitive woman felt deeply offended and annoyed.
“Do they take me for a leper?” she thought angrily, “or am I so hideous
that it disgusts them to look at me?” Suddenly, however, a humorous
idea flashed through her mind. Irene had so long ago left off thinking
of herself as in any sense an attractive woman, that the sudden idea of
being regarded by anyone in the light of a possible temptation, caused
her, quite unexpectedly, to burst into a loud peal of laughter. The monks
frowned, and Irene hastened to hide her laughing face in the muff that
had so alarmed the young secretary.
At this moment there burst into the room, noisily, and talking in
strident tones, two lean and yellow English old maids with scant greyish
hair, and enormous fashionable hats. Chattering fast and animatedly, they
sat down exactly opposite the Capuchins, and robbed these victims of the
only blank wall at which they could safely gaze without jeopardizing the
salvation of their souls.
What were the poor monks to do? The devil evidently had awful designs
on them that evening, and terrible temptation peered at them from every
corner of the Cardinal’s waiting-room. As though by order, they all
lowered their eyelids, and remained, as though turned into stone, with
their gaze riveted on the floor.
The door opened, and Irene was asked to pass into the Cardinal’s presence.
A dimly illuminated ante-room led into the drawing-room. Here, the
furniture was a little more comfortable, and there were pictures and
flowers. The cardinal stood at his writing-table, not in his red robes,
as Irene had expected, but in black with narrow red edgings. A somewhat
worn red cardinal’s cap lay on the table. The great priest looked at
Irene in silence, and with a questioning expression. She approached,
kissed the ring on his left hand, and thanked him for the honour he
was conferring on her by receiving her. He smiled, and the man of the
world awoke in him. Asking Irene to sit down on a small sofa, he began
to question her about Russia, his words revealing a great knowledge of
Russian Church matters. He seemed specially interested in a certain small
group of Russian priests, who had recently been sent by the Synod to do
penance in far-distant monasteries.
“Mais enfin, que veulent-ils? Que demandent-ils? Quel est le but de leur
révolte?” asked the Cardinal.
“I think,” answered Irene simply, “that they wanted to convoke a council,
with the object of reinstating the Patriarchy.”
The Cardinal frowned, and a shadow passed over his face. “Totally
unnecessary,” he muttered somewhat hurriedly. “Totally unnecessary.” And
he changed the subject, asking Irene what she had seen in Rome, and how
she liked the Catacombs.
“I like the Russian catacombs much better,” she answered.
“Yes—I know—you mean the Kieff ones. But they date only from the ninth
century. Remember,” exclaimed the Cardinal rapturously, “that here, in
Rome, the earliest Christian martyrs are buried.”
Irene asked where the remains of the Apostle Andrew were preserved.
“Andrew?” repeated the Cardinal, stopping to think a moment. “Yes—the
head is in the shrine of St. Peter’s, and the rest of the remains are
distributed among various churches.”
“I ask this,” explained Irene, in answer to the Cardinal’s questioning
glance, “because the Apostle Andrew is particularly dear to Russians,
having been the first to teach us Christianity.”
“Of course—I know! Andrew, the brother of Saint Peter,” said the Cardinal
with a subtle smile, as though wishing to underline the fact that Rome
and Russia had received Christianity from two brothers. “Well, and what
churches have you seen in Rome?”
Irene mentioned several of the most famous.
“Have you been to the church of Saint Cecilia?” asked the Cardinal a
little uncertainly. “No?”—he was clearly disappointed. “You should
go there without fail. It is my church—it has some very interesting
subterranean passages.”
A tender smile suddenly illuminated the stern features of this old and
serious man. Irene afterwards ascertained that Cardinal R⸺ had spent
his whole fortune on the restoration and preservation of the church of
Saint Cecilia. She went to see this church on the following day. The
ancient shrine gleamed with cleanliness and freshness. Small electric
lamps burned before the marble statue of Saint Cecilia, and flowers
stood before each of her images. Irene visited the underground sepulchre
that holds the remains of the Saint, and was charmed with the elegant
new chapel, its small, slim columns, and its exquisite mosaics in the
Byzantine style. Thus might one decorate and beautify the tomb of a
beloved daughter. On entering this chapel Irene understood the true
character of Cardinal R⸺, and knew that his stern exterior concealed a
tender, loving heart, which, in the absence of personal family ties, had
ardently attached itself to a poetical shadow, to someone’s pure and
lovely image, to someone’s spotless and sacred memory.
Gzhatski was much pleased with the impression produced upon Irene by
Cardinal R⸺, and announced that she must now make the acquaintance of
Monsignor Lefrène, of whom all Rome was talking.
Monsignor Lefrène, a clever and highly intellectual Frenchman, had
written a history of the Christian Church. The book had been published,
sold, and widely read, when suddenly the Jesuit Fathers, who always
play the part of defenders of Catholic purity, announced that Lefrène’s
history was dangerous to the faithful.
“It contains nothing contrary to Catholic dogmas,” they wrote, “but its
whole tone and tendency is offensive, and likely to do much harm.”
The book was put on the Index, and the author had to do penance.
Needless to say, this excess of zeal on the part of the Jesuit Fathers
did much more harm than could ever have been done by poor Monsignor
Lefrène. Few people, indeed, took the trouble to read the condemned
book; but everyone talked about it, and the idea became prevalent that
Lefrène held the same views as those for which the Orthodox Church had
excommunicated Tolstoi, which probability proved that heresies had
stolen into the fold of Rome. Believers spoke of Lefrène with horror,
and demanded that he should be expelled from the priesthood. Atheists,
on the contrary, rubbed their hands in triumph. And all this storm in a
teacup had been raised by nothing more serious than Monsignor Lefrène’s
sense of humour. Minds such as his, indeed, are comparatively rare, and
are of true and deep value to society. A witty, well-aimed pleasantry
may often point out to us very clearly the absurdity or grotesqueness of
some pet idea or enthusiasm, and by so doing may bring us sharply back
to reason. Thousands of people owe their abandonment of some baneful
caprice to a chance word of ridicule; yet it is a strange fact that a
satirical mind always renders its owner unpopular. The public may perhaps
sometimes forgive a satirical writer of short stories, but a satirical
priest—never! People will not understand that when Nature endows her
children with talent, she cannot foresee what uniform they will wear
later on.
Monsignor Lefrène’s sparkling epigrams were repeated all over Rome, and
cost him, according to rumour, the Cardinal’s hat. Not that the witty
Monsignor was very anxious for this honour. Truly talented people always
value God’s gift to them above all earthly honours, and a successful
epigram gives as much personal satisfaction to a wit, as a successful
novel to a writer. Both, indeed, are on the same level. It is, however,
undoubted that popular malice, animosity, and failure to understand or
recognize their genius, can deeply wound a talented nature; and it is
strange that these carping tongues often distinguish themselves, in their
own immediate circles, by delicacy and charity.
Monsignor Lefrène occupied the second floor of one of Rome’s most
splendid palaces. The magnificent antique ceilings and walls, the
beautiful furniture, the wealth of sunlight that filled this luxurious
abode, seemed more suited to the tastes of a scientist philosopher than
to those of a priest. In a line with the reception-rooms was a covered
terrace, full of tropical plants, among which strayed a number of tame
pigeons. Irene loved pigeons, and stepped out on the terrace to observe
them more closely. It was here that Monsignor Lefrène found her, and
greeted her with his always humorous smile, and a quick glance from his
keen, intelligent eyes.
“I am admiring your birds, Monsignor,” said Irene as they shook hands.
“Are you?” he answered. “But have you seen my Tiber? Look how beautiful
it is through this window.” And the Monsignor pointed to the yellow muddy
waters that always filled Irene with disgust, when comparing it with the
clear, blue rivers of Russia.
The conversation turned to the Orthodoxy, and Lefrène showed himself to
be like most Catholic priests, closely acquainted with Russian Church
matters. In addition, he had many friends among the higher Russian
clergy. Irene purposely began to speak of the suggested Orthodox Church
Council, which she had discussed also with Cardinal R⸺. Monsignor looked
displeased.
“But why do you want a council?” he asked.
“Why?” exclaimed Irene. “One of our great writers has said that the
Orthodox Church has been paralyzed since the days of Peter the Great.
With the election of a patriarch, she may perhaps recover, and pronounce
some new word.”
Lefrène shook his head.
“Oh! La nouvelle vérité ne sortira jamais de l’église,” he remarked with
conviction.
Irene was amazed.
“I don’t understand,” she stammered questioningly.
Monsignor smiled. “Comment voulez vous qu’un prêtre émette une idée
nouvelle,” he said, “quand la coupole de Saint Pierre pèse sur des
épaules?”
“Yes, but we Russians have no ‘Saint Peter’s,’” observed Irene quietly.
“Eh bien, vous avez la coupole de Moscou! Dans chaque religion, toujours
une coupole quelconque pesera sur le prêtre et lui fermera la bouche”—and
a deep sadness trembled in poor Lefrène’s voice.
“But even if so,” said Irene, “the council might improve the education
of our clergy, and teach them to cultivate warmer relations with their
flocks.” And in her turn she could not restrain the note of personal
sorrow and regret that echoed in her words.
“Oh, I have heard all those complaints before, especially from your late
philosopher, Vladimir Solovyof,” replied Monsignor. “He once related me
a very characteristic legend in this connection,” and, with his subtle
smile, Lefrène repeated the legend of Saint Nicholas, supposed to be of
Russian origin.
Saint Nicholas, accompanied by the Reverend Cassian, once came down
from heaven, on a visit to earth. On the great highway they met a poor
peasant, the wheels of whose cart had become embedded in the mud of the
roadside, and he was vainly exerting himself almost beyond his strength
to extricate them.
“Let us help him,” said the charitable Saint Nicholas.
“No, that is impossible,” replied the Reverend Cassian scornfully. “We
should soil our white robes.”
But Saint Nicholas paid no attention to him, and set to work to help
the peasant. Both horse and cart were soon standing safely in the dry
roadway, but several splashes of mud had stained the snowy whiteness of
the Saint’s raiment.
When God heard of this occurrence, He ordered that from thenceforward the
memory of Saint Nicholas was to be honoured twice a year, but that of
the Rev. Cassian only once in four years. (The festival of Saint Cassian
falls on the 29th of February!)
“Vladimir Solovyof,” added Monsignor Lefrène, “told me this legend in
that half-mocking tone which is nearly always assumed by Frenchmen
when speaking of _le bon Dieu_, but which, in Russian, is quite
inadmissible.” He explained the legend as follows: Saint Nicholas
represents the Catholic Church, always warmly attached and interested in
its followers and never afraid of touching dirt when there is a chance of
saving a sinner. Cassian, on the other hand, is the Orthodox Church, cold
and haughty, indifferent to her people, and only anxious to retain her
outer immaculacy.
Irene was greatly drawn to Monsignor Lefrène and with her usual
impulsiveness, feeling a profound confidence in him, she made him a
confession of her own personal credo, that same credo that Père Etienne
had once waved away with a smile. Lefrène listened with his customary
half-satirical smile, and answered quietly:
“Your faith has nothing whatever in common with Christianity. If anything
it is Biblical, of the Old Testament. We Christians abandoned all such
ideas nineteen centuries ago.”
Irene blushed. “It is as if they had talked it over between them,” she
thought. “Père Etienne said my faith suited the Samoyedes, and this man
says it is of the Old Testament.”
“True Christians,” explained Lefrène, noticing Irene’s perplexity,
“never expect rewards or justice in this world, because they realize
that such results are only possible beyond the grave. To pagans and Old
Testament Jews, the idea of a future life had not presented itself—hence,
in the book of Job, for instance, Job, having patiently borne all his
sufferings, expects God, in justice, to cure him of his leprosy, give him
new wealth, new children, a new wife. No, for that matter, he kept his
old, former wife, and this very circumstance makes me think that Job was
not nearly as happy as the Bible would have us believe.”
The same evening, telling Gzhatski about her visit to Lefrène, Irene
mentioned the shade of displeasure that had crossed the face of the
Monsignor, and similarly, a few days previously, that of Cardinal R⸺, at
the mention of the suggested Orthodox Council.
“I am not at all surprised,” replied Gzhatski. “The Catholics know very
well that a body without a head must, sooner or latter, decay and fall
to pieces. They foresee the moment when Russia, to save her religion,
will have to choose a head for her Church, and they hope to be able,
at that moment, to persuade her to accept the Pope as this head. The
election of a Patriarch would be a great blow to their designs, and would
indefinitely postpone all idea of a union between the two churches. I say
_postpone_ because all Catholics are completely convinced that ultimately
this union must come to pass.”
“That is exactly what I cannot understand,” exclaimed Irene. “The longer
I live in Rome, the more I come to the conclusion that the two churches
have really never been separated. No one but theologians is interested
in dogmas. Ordinary mortals, orthodox and Catholic alike, believe in the
same legends and superstitions, the same saints and martyrs, the same
prayers, the same gospel, the same services. It is even astonishing that
two churches, having so long ago severed all connection with each other,
should have remained so astonishingly similar. Russian pilgrims, who go
to Bari to pray at the shrine of Saint Nicholas, the worker of miracles,
proceed from there to the shrines of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Rome,
where they feel perfectly at home. What is the use of worrying about the
re-union of two churches that actually have never been disunited at all?”
“You forget the political standpoint,” said Gzhatski. “Russia is growing
daily and hourly, and with each year her might increases. Some day, in
the not too far-distant future, her support may be of enormous importance
to the Pope. What with the spread of Atheism and Freemasonry, there is
nothing to ensure that the Vatican will not one fine day suddenly be
turned into a National museum, and some out-of-the-way monastery in the
Apennines be offered to the Pope as a residence! The Catholic nations of
Europe would, in such a case, probably limit themselves, as they did on
the occasion of the taking of Rome, to the sending of deputations and
expressions of sympathy. It is at that moment that the Pope, like King
Lear, will turn away from his proud elder daughters Regan and Goneril,
on whom he has lavished so much love and care, and will remember the
far-away Cordelia, whom, though she has received nothing from him, he
has never ceased to regard as his daughter. There is no doubt that the
Vatican has some hopes in connection with the Northern Cordelia, and—who
knows?—perhaps even these hopes are not quite without foundation. In
any case, a persecuted and friendless Pope would certainly appeal far
more strongly to the sympathies of the Russian people than the present
magnificent and triumphant Pontiff!”