Paul sees the Pope.
ALIGHTING from her carriage at the great bronze door of the Vatican,
Mrs. Dunton led Paul into the broad corridor and up the wide staircase
to the right. The boy's eyes surveyed with delight the Pope's Swiss
guard in their picturesque parti-coloured uniform, stationed within the
entrance. He began to ask questions eagerly in his high clear tones, to
which Mrs. Dunton replied in a voice discreetly lowered, till, as they
ascended the stone steps, the solemn, decorous atmosphere of the place
affected even Paul, and he, too, became quiet, though nothing escaped
his eager eyes.
Mrs. Dunton ascended to the second floor, and, entering a small office
on the right, spoke in Italian to the sedate, demure official in suit
of glossy broadcloth and white cravat, who advanced with noiseless
tread to meet her. She gave him her card, and he ushered her into a
small sitting-room to wait while he carried it to Monsignore Nero.
The room was furnished in a plain though substantial style and lighted
from above. There was little in it to please Paul's eyes, and he grew
weary of sitting still, as many minutes went by and the monsignore did
not appear. He got down from his chair, and began to move restlessly
about the room. Absorbed in her own thoughts, Mrs. Dunton left him to
himself.
At last, the door opened and there entered a tall, large man with
handsome features and dark eyes. In a soft, deep voice, with charming
kindliness, he welcomed Mrs. Dunton, patted Paul on the head and called
him "a fine little fellow;" then sank into a chair beside the lady, who
was soon engaged in earnest talk with him.
Paul felt himself out of it, and decidedly bored. The door into the
outer room stood open. There was the sound of voices and the stir of
life outside. He wanted to see more of the strange, vast building
in which he found himself, so, taking advantage of Mrs. Dunton's
pre-occupation, he slipped out of the room, and crossing the next, came
on to the open court which was at the top of the staircase.
Two Carabineers in their smart uniform stood on guard at the entrance
to the court, but it chanced that their attention was at that moment
engaged by an official of the Vatican, with whom they were in close
consultation. The little boy slipped behind one of them, and ran across
the courtyard and out by an exit on the other side, without attracting
the attention of any of the three. Delighted with his freedom, he sped
on along the passage in which he found himself, turned to the right,
crossed another court, and came into a road at the back of St. Peter's,
near the entrance to the Sculpture Gallery, where there were several
carriages drawn up. A group of students in long black gowns with red
sashes stood by the door. They were talking earnestly, and Paul slipped
by them without attracting any special attention. He found himself
beside a large iron gate which stood a little way open. Beyond he saw a
broad gravel terrace, with tall trees and masses of bright flowers in
the distance.
In a moment Paul was through the gate and running along the terrace.
Instinct told him that he was on forbidden ground. These must be the
beautiful old gardens of the Vatican, of which he had heard people
speak. Well, here he was, and he would see all he could while he had
the chance.
Paul was conscious of a strong and delicious perfume, as he ran along
the terrace. It came from the orange and lemon trees planted against
the walls, and covered with a wealth of white blossoms, enough to
provide wreaths for all the brides of Christendom. Paul sniffed their
fragrance with rapture as he hurried on, anxious to see as much as
possible ere he was reprimanded and borne away, as he fully expected to
be.
The sound of falling water reached his ears. He turned to the right,
and saw a tiny cascade falling over stones, fringed with maiden-hair
fern. He paused for a few moments to gaze at this, then went on, being
now out of sight of the gate, and found fresh wonders and delights at
every turn. There were roses in abundance, and of every species, from
the tiny Banksia, trained over arbours and trellises, to the large
thick cabbage roses and the exquisite pale yellow Maréchal Niel.
But, though he loved flowers, Paul presently came on what interested
him more. Within a large fenced enclosure was a collection of curious
animals—ostriches with their tall, swift limbs, and long awkward necks;
a pelican, with its extraordinary bill; a few goats and deer; and a
couple of sheep of a peculiar breed. Paul stood as if glued to the wire
fence which enclosed these creatures. He started as a voice addressing
him in Italian said:—
"Who is this little gentleman who admires so much the Pope's menagerie?"
Paul looked round, and saw an elderly man, wearing a grey suit of
clothes and a broad straw hat, who was regarding him with an amused and
benevolent expression.
"I do not know what you say," said Paul, looking up into the stranger's
face with his open, fearless expression; "I am an English boy; I cannot
speak Italian, except just a word or two, you know."
"Ah! He is an English boy," said the man, speaking Paul's native tongue
in a way that the child thought rather funny; "I can speak the English,
but it is not much. I have been to England. They know how to make the
garden in England."
"Yes; but Janet says the Scotch are the best gardeners," said Paul.
"She says a Scotch gardener would be ashamed to let the gardens get so
untidy as they do in Italy."
"Ah! It is true; the Scotch does know how to gardener," replied
the stranger, "and they does think that they does know better than
everybody else. But how comes the little English boy into my garden?"
"Is it your garden?" said Paul in surprise. "I thought it was the
Pope's."
"So it is, but I—I am the Pope's head of the gardeners," said the
stranger with an air of importance, which was not lost upon Paul.
"Are you angry with me because I am here?" he asked. "I have not
touched any of the flowers, indeed. I came with Mrs. Dunton to see
Monsignore Nero, you know."
"Ah! It is Monsignore Nero brings you," said the gardener, looking
round.
"No, he did not bring me; it was Mrs. Dunton," said Paul.
"It is the same," said his new acquaintance. "Have you seen our
parrots?"
"No," said Paul eagerly; "but I should like to see them."
"Come with me, then," said the gardener. And he led Paul to another
part of the garden where stood a large cage containing parrots of
splendid plumage—green, red, and yellow.
Paul was charmed to watch these, and to hear them say, "'Buon giorno'"
in hoarse, inward tones.
So far from being angry, his new friend seemed to take pleasure in
showing him everything that was likely to please him, and as they
went along, he picked roses and other flowers for Paul. They came to
a splendid fountain sparkling in the sunshine, and filling almost to
overflowing a large deep basin. A little farther on was an entrance
into a lovely miniature wood. Wild flowers grew there in abundance, a
fountain gleamed prettily in the distance, and an antique statue was
visible amid the trees.
"He may pick as many of those flowers as he likes," said the gardener.
Paul looked wistfully into the wood and longed to explore it; but it
had just occurred to him that Mrs. Dunton's talk with the monsignore
must be over by now, and she was probably looking for him.
"I should like to pick some of those bluebells," he said; "but I expect
I ought to go back to Mrs. Dunton."
"You do better to stay here," said the gardener, thinking that the
monsignore and the lady were somewhere in the grounds; "they are sure
to come here presently. If you go one way, they may go another, and you
miss."
This advice accorded so well with Paul's inclination that he thought it
excellent. The little wood was bounded on this side by a tall, thick
hedge of box, which gave forth a sweet, subtle fragrance beneath the
slanting rays of the sun. On the other side of the hedge was a broad,
gravelled path. The gardener glanced down it as he spoke, and saw a
little group of persons at the farther end.
"Here they come, I believe," he said.
Paul looked in the direction indicated; but there was no lady amongst
the persons advancing, all black-robed, save for a tall, slight form in
the centre, which was clad in white.
"Mrs. Dunton is not there," he said.
"No, indeed," said the gardener; "I see now that it is the Holy Father
who comes."
"The Holy Father!" exclaimed Paul, in an awe-struck tone. "Oh! Shall I
see him? 'May' I see him?"
"I don't know," said the gardener, looking grave. "The Holy Father may
not like to see a little English boy in his garden; but stay—I know
how. You shall stand in the wood, and the holes in the hedge are many
through which you can see. Quick—here."
He led Paul within the wood, and soon found a hole through which the
little boy could look upon the path, while keeping himself out of sight.
"You stand there and keep always quiet," he said, "and you will see,
and no one see you."
"But the Holy Father will know that I am here," said Paul.
The gardener looked puzzled, but with a gesture, he enjoined Paul to
keep silence, and, stepping back into the path, went forward to meet
those who were advancing.
Paul's heart was beating fast, and the breath came quickly through his
parted lips. "Adam and Eve hid themselves when He walked in the garden
in the cool of the day," he said to himself, and he trembled at once
with joy and fear.
Five persons were approaching, but Paul saw but one. His eyes were
riveted on the slight, gaunt, yet dignified form, clothed in a long
white habit, which advanced with slow, feeble steps leaning on a stick.
It was that of an old man, with silvery hair showing beneath his small,
close-fitting cap. His face, with its strongly-marked features, keen,
piercing glance, and complexion of the colour of old ivory, impressed
the child deeply, but was not what he had expected to see, if, indeed,
he could have given form and colour to his vague anticipation.
He watched as the gardener went forward, and with deep reverence
saluted the aged personage. He saw the deeply-lined face break into
a broad smile—he heard questions and answers exchanged, but not a
word could he understand. He noted that certain words, uttered by the
venerable centre of the group, in a voice that was clear and strong,
though a trifle tremulous, caused smiles and even a ripple of laughter
to pass among his companions. Then the little party moved on, and
presently the gardener came back to Paul.
"Well, did you see him?" he asked.
"No," said Paul, in a tone of disappointment; "I saw that old man in
white; but he was not the Holy Father."
"But he was," he replied. "Do you mean for to tell me that I know not
the Pope?"
"Oh, the Pope!" said Paul. "Was he the Pope? But I thought I should see
God—'our Father in heaven,' you know."
"God!" repeated the gardener, in a startled tone. "How could you expect
to see God, my dear little boy? No one can see Him."
"But Holy is His Name," said the child; "and He used to walk in the
garden where Adam and Eve lived."
"Ah! But that was in Eden, and a long while ago," said the man, with a
smile. "No mortal can look upon the face of God. The Pope is His Vicar;
that means, you know, that he stands in His place. People look on him
instead of on God, and he acts in the name of God—so at least the
priests say; but I don't know myself."
"How can he?" said Paul, with a perplexed and even troubled expression
on his guileless face. "Why, it was Jesus who came to show us what God
is like. I know, for nurse has told me. Ah! And I remember she said
that the Roman Catholics put the Pope and the Virgin Mary in the place
of Christ."
The gardener looked on him in wonder. "So you are a Protestant, my
little gentleman?" he said.
"Yes, certainly I am a Protestant," said Paul, unconsciously
straightening his tiny form as he spoke. "Will you tell the Pope, and
will he have me burned?"
He asked the question eagerly, and without the least appearance of
fear. His imagination had grasped the idea of the glory of martyrdom
without taking account of its pains.
The gardener stared at him for a moment, then burst into a hearty laugh.
"No, no," he said, as soon as he could speak. "We do not burn
Protestants in Rome to-day. We will not give that baby face and those
pretty curls to the flames. But what an innocent it is! And what is
Monsignore Nero about, that he lets such a little Protestant run wild
in the gardens of the Vatican?"
"I don't think he knows I am here," said Paul. "He and Mrs. Dunton were
talking hard in the little parlour, and I slipped away. I expect she
thinks me naughty."
"What! You came into these gardens alone? I never heard of such a
thing. Come, come, we must go and find this lady."
So saying, the gardener took hold of Paul's hand, and marched him off
to the entrance, which was at no great distance. They had not gone
many steps from the great gate when they encountered Mrs. Dunton and
Monsignore Nero, the lady looking flushed and distressed, but the
ecclesiastic serene as usual.
"Ah! Here he is," he said; "here is our little friend!"
"Oh, Paul, where have you been?" cried Mrs. Dunton. "We have been
searching for you everywhere."
"I have been in the Pope's gardens," said Paul calmly.
"And he has seen the Holy Father," said the gardener.
"No, I have not," said Paul, "I have only seen the Pope."
"But, my child, he is the Holy Father," said the monsignore.
"No, he is not," said Paul stoutly. "God is the Holy Father, and I
thought I should see Him."
For a moment all were silent from astonishment, as they looked into the
child's uplifted face, so serious and so sweet.
A change passed over the face of the monsignore. He laid his hand
tenderly on the child's golden head, and said, in his full, deep tones,
"That vision, too, may be yours some day, little Paul, since it is
written that the pure in heart shall see Him."