February 21, 1914.
Rome, Villa Orsini.
Cardinal X., the closest friend and confidante of the Pope, has paid
me a visit. He was accompanied by two abbés. In general, he is a
personage whose attentions to me have brought me no small measure of
prestige.
I met His Eminence in the reception hall of my new palace. Toppi was
dancing all about the priests, snatching their blessings quicker than
a lover does the kisses of his mistress. Six devout hands hardly
managed to handle one Devil, grown pious, and before we had reached
the threshold of my study, he actually contrived to touch the belly of
the Cardinal. What ecstasy!
Cardinal X. speaks all the European languages and, out of respect
for the Stars and Stripes and my billions, he spoke English. He
began the conversation by congratulating me upon the acquisition of
the Villa Orsini and told me its history in detail for the past 200
years. This was quite unexpected, very long, at times confusing and
unintelligible, so that I was compelled, like a real American ass,
to blink constantly...but this gave me an opportunity to study my
distinguished and eminent visitor.
He is not at all old. He is broad shouldered, well built and in good
health. He has a large, almost square face, an olive skin, with a
bluish tinge upon his shaven cheeks, and his thin, but beautiful hands
reveal his Spanish blood. Before he dedicated himself to God, Cardinal
X. was a Spanish grandee and duke. But his dark eyes are too small and
too deeply set beneath his thick eyebrows and the distance between the
short nose and the thin lips is too long.... All this reminds me of
some one. But of whom? And what is this curious habit I have of being
reminded of some one? Probably a saint?
For a moment the cardinal was lost in thought and suddenly I recalled:
Yes, this is simply a shaven _monkey_! This must be its sad, boundless
pensiveness, _its_ evil gleam within the narrow pupil!
But in a moment the Cardinal laughed, jested and gesticulated like a
Neapolitan lazzarone--he was no longer telling me the history of the
palace. He was playing, he was interpreting it in facial expression
and dramatic monologue! He has short fingers, not at all like those
of a monkey, and when he gesticulates he rather resembles a penguin
while his voice reminds me of a talking parrot--Who are you, anyhow?
No, a monkey! He is laughing again and I observe that he really does
not know how to laugh. It is as if he had learned the human art of
laughter but yesterday. He likes it but experiences considerable
difficulty in extracting it from his throat. The sounds seem to choke
him. It is impossible not to echo this strange contagious laughter.
But it seems to break one's jaws and teeth and to petrify the muscles.
It was really remarkable. I was fascinated when Cardinal X. suddenly
cut short his lecture on the Villa Orsini by a fit of groaning
laughter which left him calm and silent. His thin fingers played with
his rosary, he remained quiet and gazed at me with a mien of deepest
reverence and gentle love: something akin to tears glistened in his
dark eyes. I had made an impression upon him. He loved me!
What was I to do? I gazed into his square, ape-like face. Kindliness
turned to love, love into passion, and still we maintained the
silence...another moment and I would have stifled him in my embrace!
"Well, here you are in Rome, Mr. Wondergood," sweetly sang the old
monkey, without altering his loving gaze.
"Here I am in Rome," I agreed obediently, continuing to gaze upon him
with the same sinful passion.
"And do you know, Mr. Wondergood, why I came here, i.e., in addition,
of course, to the pleasure I anticipated in making your acquaintance?"