We get our London papers here as regularly as you do, only forty-eight
hours later, and I see that readers at home have been able to follow
the course of the services in St. Peter’s and the Roman Churches
during Passion Week about as well as we who are on the spot, and so
to appreciate the thoroughness which the priesthood, from cardinals
downwards, for I am sorry to say the Pope is still unable to take his
usual part, throw into the attempt to reproduce the supreme drama of
our race, so far as this can be done, day by day, almost hour by hour.
I have not, however, noticed any mention of the “Tenebræ” at St. John
Lateran, a service of rather more than an hour, from 4.30 to 5.30, on
the afternoon of Good Friday, when the last words have fallen from the
cross, and Joseph of Arimathæa, with the faithful women, has borne away
the scarred and bleeding body of the Lord of Life to his own grave, in
which no man has yet lain--
All the toil, the sorrow done,
All the battle fought and won,
as Arthur Stanley says, in one of the noblest hymns in the English
language. We had the good fortune the day before to meet one of the
Monsignori, an old friend, formerly a hard-working and successful London
incumbent, who suggested that we should go, and to whom I shall always
feel grateful for the advice. We accordingly were at the door of that
splendid, but to my mind too sumptuously decorated church, punctually
at 4.30. The procession had already reached the chancel, and were taking
their allotted places. Most of your readers will probably be familiar
with the church, but for those who are not, I may say that the chancel
is wider, I think, than that in any of our cathedrals, and that the
whole space from the high altar to the solid marble rails--about three
and a half feet high, which divide the chancel from the rest of the
church--is open, with the sole exception of the row of stalls which run
along each sidewall, and which are reserved for, and were now filled by,
priests. For this particular service, however (and for this only, as I
was told), a row of chairs was placed just within the chancel-rails,
for the Monsignori and other priests of the Pope’s household, who were
already seated, all in deep black, with their faces to the altar and
their backs to the congregation. They remained seated during the whole
service (though several of the priests from the side-stalls stepped
down at intervals and took part in the service), thus, it seemed to me,
emphasising the division between priests and people, and impressing
on us beyond chancel-rails, the fact that we were there rather as
sightseers, spectators of a solemn ceremony, than joint-sharers in an
act of worship.
When we arrived the service had scarcely commenced, though the organ was
pealing solemnly through the vast church; but the whole of the space in
front of the chancel-rails was already filled by a dense crowd. Many of
those who were in front, close to the chancel-rails, knelt, leaning
on the rails, but by no means all, and the rest stood--a noteworthy
assembly. For there were at least as many men as women, and of all
classes. It is not easy nowadays to recognise rank by dress or bearing;
but there were certainly a considerable minority of well-dressed,
well-to-do people, mixed with soldiers in half a dozen different
uniforms (as I was glad to see), artisans, peasants, men and women in
force, the latter generally leading a child or two by the hand, with
a sprinkling of young men, preparing, I suppose by their dress, for
priests’ orders, who for the most part had books in which they followed
the service attentively,--no easy task under the surrounding conditions.
For though the front ranks, two or three deep next the chancel-rails,
were for the most part stationary, the great mass behind was constantly
moving about and talking in low tones,--not irreverently, but rather as
they would be in England at any large gathering where they could take no
part themselves in the performance, but felt that it was the right thing
to be there, and that they must not interfere with the minority, who
seemed to understand and appreciate what was going on. I was not one
of these latter, as I do not understand music, and had no book of the
words; though I was quite sensible that the pathos, chequered with
occasional bursts of triumph, and rendered by exquisite tenors and boys’
voices, was equal to any music I had ever heard. Moreover, the sight
of the splendidly dressed priests, moving frequently about before the
altar, without any reason so far as I could see, and the swinging of
censers, the clouds of incense, and gestures to which I could attach no
meaning, inclined me to get out of the crowd. With this view I
looked about for my companion, who, I found, had managed to reach the
altar-rails. So in order that we might be sure to meet at the end of the
service, I got quietly back to the door by which we had entered, where
I could hear the music and voices perfectly, though out of sight of the
chancel. Here I resolved to wait, and at once became much interested in
the people who were constantly passing in or leaving the church. Soon I
remarked that almost all of the former, especially the peasant men and
women with children, turned to the right and disappeared for a minute
or two before going on to join the crowd in front of the chancel. So I
followed, and can scarcely say how much I was impressed by what I saw.
In a small side-chapel, near the entrance, which was their destination,
dimly lighted, a crucifix with a life-sized figure of our Lord upon it
was lying on a stone couch raised some two feet from the floor. There
was no priest in charge, only two bright little choristers (I suppose)
in their white gowns; and perfect silence reigned in the chapel by the
entrance of which I stood and saw several men and women kneeling. They
got up one by one, and approaching the figure dropped again on their
knees, and, stooping, kissed, some the nail-prints in the hands or feet,
some the spear-wound in the side, but none the face. The most touching
sight was the fathers or mothers when they rose from their knees lifting
the children and teaching them to kiss the wounds. I stood there for
at least twenty minutes, until the end of the service in fact, and must
have seen at least a hundred men, women, and children enter. Of
these, three only failed to kneel and kiss the cross, the first, a
well-dressed, middle-aged woman, leading a restless small lap-dog, which
pulled and whined whenever his mistress was not attending to him; the
others, two young girls--but quite old enough to have known better--who
marched in amongst the kneeling figures, open guide-book in hand,
noticed something in the chapel to which it referred, and then marched
out. They passed close enough for me to catch a word or two of their
talk, which I am glad to say was not English.
As I stood there and watched and listened, the distant voices seemed
to be chanting that grand old monk’s-Latin hymn, the “Dies Iræ,” and I
fancied (I am afraid it was pure fancy) I could hear:--
Quærens me sedisti lassus,
Redeinisti crucem passas,
Tantus labor non sit cassus!
More than once I was haunted by the wish to enter and kneel and kiss the
cross, by the side of some poor Italian woman and her child. I wish now
that I had, but hope it was a genuine Protestant instinct which hindered
me. At any rate I shall never have another chance. This crucifix is only
brought out once a year--on Good Friday--and I shall never again be in
St. John’s Lateran on that day for the “Tenebræ” service.