HOLY WEEK IN ROME.
It was evening when the travellers reached Rome. They had accomplished
the journey in the time promised by Manasseh, and now the query was
raised, could their enemy, by any possibility, have outstripped them?
Upon the coachman's inquiring to what hotel he should take his
passengers, Gabriel Zimandy drew out his memorandum-book and read the
name of a house recommended to him by his landlord at Vienna. European
innkeepers, be it observed, join together in a sort of fraternity for
mutual aid in a business way, passing their guests along from city to
city and from hand to hand, sometimes even providing them with letters
of introduction.
The cards of the hotel in question bore the important announcement,
"German is spoken here;" and this was an advantage not to be despised.
"You will come with us, won't you?" said the advocate, turning with a
courteous bow to Manasseh.
"Where German is spoken? No, I thank you. If I announce myself as a
Hungarian, they will kiss my hand and then charge the kiss on the bill;
if I say I am a German, I shall get a drubbing and be charged for that,
too. I prefer to hunt up a modest little inn where, when I register from
Transylvania, the good people will think it is somewhere in America,
perhaps in the neighbourhood of Pennsylvania. The Yankees, you know, are
highly respected in Italy."
"I regret exceedingly--" began the advocate. "Among so many strangers it
would have been very pleasant to have----"
"At least one enemy within call," interrupted the young man, with a
smile. "Well, you see, I am likely to be in Rome some time; so I shall
look up a quiet room for myself near the Colosseum, where the sun shines
and I can carry out certain plans of my own."
The carriage turned into a brilliantly lighted street and passed a
stately palace before which a richly sculptured fountain was sending its
streams of sparkling water into the air.
"The Palazzo Cagliari," remarked Manasseh, but without any significant
emphasis.
A natural impulse of curiosity moved Blanka to turn and look at the
ancestral mansion of her husband's family. A moment later Manasseh
signalled the driver to stop, and alighted from the carriage after
shaking hands with his fellow travellers. Gabriel Zimandy said they
should be sure to meet again soon; Madam Dormandy hoped they might all
go sightseeing together in a few days; but Blanka said nothing as she
bowed her farewell.
Reaching their hotel, our three travellers were greeted by the landlord
with unmistakable tokens of surprise.
"And have your excellencies met with no mishap on the way?" he took
early occasion to inquire.
"Certainly not. Why?"
"Your coming was announced in advance by our Vienna agent, and
accordingly we reserved rooms for you. But at the same time another
guest was also announced, a gentleman of high station from Hungary; and
this afternoon word came that this gentleman and all his party had been
captured by bandits in the ravine at the foot of Monte Rosso, and
carried off into the mountains, where they will have to stay until their
ransom is forthcoming. We feared your excellencies were of the party."
"No," said Gabriel; "we came by way of Orvieto."
"Lucky for you!" exclaimed the landlord.
"What is the name of the gentleman you refer to?" asked the princess, in
a tone that betrayed the keenness of her interest.
"It's a queer name," answered the landlord, "and I can't remember it.
But I'll find it for you in my letters of advice and send it up to your
room."
Blanka had hardly laid aside her wraps when a waiter knocked at her door
and presented a card on a silver salver. "Conte Benjamino de Vajdar" was
the name she read in the landlord's handwriting.
* * * * *
On the following morning, Blanka sent for the hotel-keeper and desired
him to procure for herself and her two companions admission tickets to
all the sacred ceremonies of the coming week. The worthy man fairly
gasped at the coolness of this request. Tickets to the Sistine Chapel,
to the Tenebræ, to the Benediction, and to the Glorification--and for
three persons? Why, money couldn't buy them at that late hour, he
declared. Admission tickets to paradise would be more easily obtainable.
At the very utmost, places might still be procured on some balcony
overlooking the Piazza di San Pietro, but only at extremely high prices.
Yet the view from such a position would be a fine one; and mine host,
without waiting to listen to any objections, hastened away to secure
tickets, if they were still to be had.
The princess made her lament to Gabriel Zimandy over her poor success in
obtaining what she so ardently desired, and that gentleman sought to
console her with the assurance that it was highly venturesome for
ladies to trust themselves in the crowd that always attended the church
ceremonies of Holy Week, and that she could read all about them much
more comfortably in the newspapers. Blanka, however, took so much to
heart the disappointment of her pious wishes, and came so near the point
of tear-letting, that the advocate felt obliged to sally forth in person
to see what he could do to console her. In less than an hour he was back
again, breathless and exultant. He ran up-stairs with the agility of a
much younger and less corpulent man, and hastened to the princess's
room, regardless of the fact that she was at the moment under her
hair-dresser's hands.
"Victory!" he cried, panting for breath. "The impossible is achieved,
and here are tickets for all three of us--to everything--to the Tenebræ,
the washing of feet, the Last Supper, the Resurrection, the relics, the
Benediction--"
"But how did you get them?" interrupted the ladies, overcome with
curiosity. Madam Dormandy had come hurrying out of her room at the first
sound of his voice, and she and the princess now proceeded to pelt their
victorious envoy with a volley of questions.
"Well, you see," replied the lawyer, gradually recovering his breath,
"it is a curious story. As I was tearing across the Corso, intent on my
errand, I felt some one catch me by the coat-tail and heard a voice
call to me in Hungarian, 'Haste makes waste!' I wheeled about, and there
stood our Arian friend."
"Manasseh Adorjan?"
"Yes. He asked me if we had our affairs all in order, and I told him, by
no means. I complained to him of our ill luck in securing tickets to the
sacred ceremonies, and that it seemed impossible to get even anywhere
near the Vatican. 'Well,' said he, with that confoundedly serious
expression of his that you don't know whether to take as a sign of jest
or earnest, 'let me see if I can't make it possible for you.' 'But,'
said I, 'you don't imagine that you, a fallen statesman and an Arian
heretic, can gain what is denied to Spanish princesses of the strictest
orthodoxy?' 'You shall soon see,' he answered, and proceeded to lead me
through one crooked street after another, until we found ourselves in
front of a palace, at whose door a military watch was posted. He handed
his card to the doorkeeper, and presently we were ushered into an
anteroom, where Adorjan left me while he himself went with a man who
seemed to be a private secretary, or something of the sort, into the
next room. It wasn't long before he came out again and put three cards
into my hand. 'There they are,' said he. 'Why, you are a regular
magician!' I couldn't but exclaim. 'Oh, no,' he replied, 'I am no
Cagliostro; the explanation is simple enough. This is the French
embassy, and Monsieur Rossi is an old friend of mine. I have visited his
family often. So when I asked him for tickets to all the ceremonies of
Holy Week for two Hungarian ladies and their escort, he gave them to me
at once. But now you must look sharp, for cards enough have been given
out to fill the Sistine Chapel six times over, and there will be a
scramble to get in.'"
The princess was as pleased as a child. Her dearest wish was gratified;
but, singularly enough, she owed this gratification to the very man whom
she felt the necessity of avoiding and forgetting. It was, however, to
the mysterious charm of the approaching ceremonies that she looked for
an effective means of diverting her thoughts from forbidden channels.
Yet the fact remained that he himself had opened the way for her to this
earnestly desired distraction, and to Blanka it seemed as if his
influence over her was only increased and strengthened by his absence.
"What return, pray, did you make for all this kindness?" she asked.
"A very ungracious one, I fear," replied Gabriel. "After receiving these
tickets, which are worth many times their weight in gold, I told our
benefactor that I feared they would profit us little, unless he procured
one for himself, also, and acted as our guide."
"You asked him to escort us?" exclaimed the princess, consternation in
her tone.
"I know it was a strange request," admitted the advocate, "to ask a
heretic to witness the Passion, and the Resurrection, and the
Glorification. It is like burning incense before his Satanic Majesty.
Naturally enough, he refused at first point-blank, alleging that he had
no right to thrust himself as attendant on two ladies without their
invitation. 'Well, then,' said I, 'don't go as the ladies' escort, but
just show me, your fellow countryman, the way about, else I shall
certainly get lost, and find myself in the Catacombs instead of the
Vatican.' Finally, I forced him to yield, and so he is to accompany us."
In the afternoon of the same day Manasseh Adorjan called on the
princess, and brought her a piece of good news of the utmost importance.
Her trunks, and those of her friends, had arrived safely and promptly,
and were at the custom-house. She had concluded that they had fallen
into the bandits' hands, but it seemed that it was not the diligence,
after all, that the robbers had waylaid; it was a post-carriage engaged
by one of the travellers in the hope of reaching Rome a few hours
earlier than the public conveyance. This one traveller only had been
carried off into the mountains by the bandits, who had despatched a
letter from their captive to Rome, addressed to Prince Cagliari, and
presumably relating to the ransom. But as the prince was at present in
Vienna, and postal communication between the two cities was at that time
slow and uncertain, the ransom stood a good chance of being considerably
delayed. This was a hint to the princess to make the most of the
interim, and plead her cause at the Vatican, before her enemy could put
in an appearance and damage her case. Manasseh, however, betrayed no
sign of possessing any knowledge of the pending divorce suit, but
continued to bear himself with the courteous reserve of a new
acquaintance. Two things he sought thenceforth to avoid,--paying court
to the beautiful young princess, and speaking lightly of things held
sacred by her.
Complying with the expressed wish of the two ladies, in the evening he
made with them the round of the principal churches, which now all wore
gala attire. He took his seat on the box by the coachman's side, and
pointed out, in passing, the buildings and scenes of special interest.
In one of the churches he showed the ladies facsimiles of the four nails
used in the Crucifixion; of the originals, one, he explained, was
preserved in St. Peter's, and another had been used to make the circle
of the Iron Crown. He even bought as a souvenir one of these facsimiles,
which a Cistercian monk was offering for sale. He obtained also
consecrated palm-branches with gilded leaves, and bribed the custodian
of the three sacred orange-trees planted by the Apostles to give his
party each a tiny leaflet. He schooled his face to betray no incredulity
when the keepers of the various holy relics recited their virtues, and
related the miracles wrought by them. And when Blanka knelt in prayer
before a statue of the Madonna, he withdrew respectfully to a distance.
It was an earnest petition she offered before the blessed Virgin, a
prayer for rescue from her enemies, and for strength to resist every
temptation. And she knew not that her rescuer and her tempter were one
and the same person, and that he stood there behind her at that very
moment.
Of a highly impressionable temperament, and fresh from her convent life,
the princess was so moved by the sacred emblems about her, and by their
holy associations, that she could not conceive of any one's viewing
these objects with less of awe and reverence than herself. And when her
conductor recounted the legend of the sacred lance in the chapel of St.
Veronica,--how the Roman lictor Longinus had pierced the Saviour's side
with this lance, and been himself struck blind the same instant, but had
immediately recovered his sight when he rubbed his eyes with the hand on
which four drops of the Redeemer's blood had fallen,--Blanka could not
but ask herself whether another such miracle might not be wrought, and
another blind man be restored to sight. She dreamed of this miracle that
night, and made a vow to the Virgin that in case of her deliverance from
her present difficulties, she would show her gratitude by presenting the
Madonna with a jewel more precious than any that adorned her crown: she
would offer this young man himself, who now refused to worship at her
shrine. The princess felt herself rich enough to buy this jewel for her
offering. Her heart held inexhaustible treasures, of which no man as yet
could claim any share. She ceased to fear him against whom she had
hitherto felt obliged to be on her guard; so much strength had she
gained from the sacred relics that she now thought herself strong enough
to make conquests of her own.
In the morning Manasseh came early to escort the ladies and Gabriel
Zimandy to the Sistine Chapel. Upon gaining the Piazza di San Pietro
they found a vast throng already assembled, through which the young man
was forced to pilot his charges. Blanka was compelled to cling fast to
his arm, while Madam Dormandy took the advocate's, and so they made the
best of their way forward. As if by instinct, Manasseh knew where a
courteous request would open a path before them, where to resort to more
energetic measures, and where a couple of _lire_ would prove most
effectual. At length he was successful in gaining the very best
position in the chapel, and here, unfolding a camp-stool which he had
brought with him under his overcoat, he offered Blanka a seat, whence
she could view the ceremonies in comfort, and without annoyance from the
pushing and crowding multitude.
Alas, poor Blanka! She only learned later from her father confessor what
a sin she had committed in thus yielding to the weakness of the flesh,
instead of standing through all the weary hours of that morning. A good
Christian should not think of bodily comfort while his Saviour hangs
bleeding on the cross. But she did not know this at the time, and
therefore her escort's kind attention was most grateful to her.
The Tenebræ is one of the most impressive of all the ceremonies of Holy
Week in Rome. The Sistine Chapel is draped entirely in black, and only
the soft rays of thirteen wax candles serve to lessen the darkness, out
of whose depths, as out of the blackness of the tomb, sounds the
antiphony of mourning and lamentation. The human forms moving to and fro
before the cross are hardly distinguishable, but have the appearance of
vague shadows. Then the candles are, one by one, extinguished, until
only a single taper is left burning on the altar--that is Jesus. And in
this darkness, symbolic of grief and mourning, an invisible choir sings
the _Miserere_, Allegri's world-renowned composition, whose mystic
notes bring so vividly before us that last scene on Golgotha,--the agony
of the dying Saviour, the taunts of the lictors, the wailing of the holy
women, the shrieks of the dead whose graves are opened, and who cry
aloud for mercy, and finally the rending of the Temple curtain, and the
chorus of angels in heaven. All this affects even the most hardened of
skeptics with a power that cannot be withstood. For the time being the
imagination is mistress of the reason.
As the crowd poured out of the chapel after the ceremony was over,
Blanka shot a glance of scrutiny from beneath her veil at the young man
by her side. His face wore its wonted look of seriousness, the utter
opposite of careless indifference, but at the same time wholly unlike
the devout rapture of a believer. In fact, his expression betrayed but
too clearly that his thoughts were little occupied with what he had just
witnessed.
"Have you heard the _Miserere_ many times before?" asked Blanka.
"Twice only,--once in the Sistine Chapel, and again in St. Stephen's at
Vienna."
"But I thought its production was forbidden elsewhere than in Rome,"
said the princess.
"Formerly that was the case," replied Manasseh, "the publication of
Allegri's work being strictly prohibited; but after Mozart had heard it
once and written it down from memory, its reproduction could not be
prevented. So I had a chance to hear it in Vienna, where, however, it
was but ill received, some of the audience even being moved to
laughter."
"For what reason, pray?"
"Oh, not from any frivolity or irreverence, but because the music, which
sounds so grandly impressive here in the Sistine Chapel, strikes one as
a mere confusion of discordant notes amid other surroundings."
On the following day came the washing of the Apostles' feet. Chosen
priests from thirteen nations of the earth gathered in the Pauline
Chapel to receive this humble service at the hands of the Pope himself.
The thirteenth of these chosen ones represented the angel that is said
to have appeared with the appointed twelve in St. Gregory's time. Then
followed the Last Supper, at which also the holy father ministered to
the Apostles in person.
The next day was Saturday, and Gabriel Zimandy declared himself
surfeited with holy ceremonies. Madam Dormandy agreed with him and began
to complain of a fearful headache. Then the two united in maintaining
that the princess looked utterly worn out and in need of rest. But
Manasseh, who, by appointment, just then came upon the scene to offer
his escort for the day, laughed them all three to shame.
"That is always the way," said he; "people tire themselves out so before
Saturday that on that day five-sixths of the crowd stay at home to save
up their strength for Easter, and thus miss one of the most impressive
spectacles of the week,--the adoration of the true cross."
Poor Gabriel was now given no rest: he was forced to accompany the
others once more to the Sistine Chapel, though he declared himself
already quite stiff and sore with so much standing.
The chapel was at its best; the black hangings had been removed, the
light from the windows was softened, candles burned on the altar, and,
as Manasseh had predicted, so many of the sightseers had stayed at home
that ample room was left for those who were present. The general
multitude could find little pleasure in the ceremony of the day,--the
worship of a piece of wood about three yards in length, and unadorned
with gold or silver. The Pope and the cardinals, gowned with no pretence
to magnificence or pomp, knelt before the relic as it lay on the altar.
It was but a fragment of the original cross, broken in the strife that
attended its rescue. This piece is said to have been saved and carried
off by an emperor, making his way barefoot from Jerusalem to Alexandria,
where another emperor concealed the precious relic in a statue, and
finally the Templars bore it in triumph through pagan hordes from
Constantinople to Rome. And now, when the head of the Church, the pastor
of a flock of two hundred million human beings, the keeper of the keys
of heaven, approaches this bit of wood, he strips himself of his
splendid robes, removes the crown from his head, the shoes from his
feet, and goes, simply clad and barefoot, with humble mien, to kneel and
kiss the sacred emblem. The cardinals follow his example, and meanwhile
the choir sings Palestrina's famous composition, the "Mass of Pope
Marcellinus," a wonderful piece that must have been first sung to the
composer by the angels themselves.
When the last notes of the music had died away, the bells of St. Peter's
began to ring, the hangings before the windows were drawn aside, and
Michael Angelo's marvellous frescoes were fully revealed to the admiring
gaze of all present. The swords and halberds of the guards were once
more raised erect, and the choir, the prelates, and the pilgrims joined
in a common "Hallelujah!"
"Hallelujah!" cried Gabriel Zimandy also, rejoicing that the ceremony
was finally ended. "Never before in all my life have I been so
completely tired out."
On his return to the hotel, he stoutly protested against attending any
more Church functions, and argued at length the inadvisability of the
ladies exposing themselves to the heat and fatigue of the Easter
service. Finally, and most important of all, he added that he had been
granted an audience with the Pope and must prepare his address, which
was to be in Latin.
"We are infinitely indebted to you, friend Manasseh," he concluded, "for
all your kindness; but you see for yourself how the case stands with
me."
"Yes, yes, I understand," replied the young man. "The audience is fixed
for day after to-morrow, and of course you wish to prepare for it. Let
me suggest, too, that you pay the French ambassador, to whose house I
took you the other day, the courtesy of a call; he knows a little Latin,
although, to be sure, it can't equal your own."
This suggestion, casual though it was meant to appear, made it evident
to the advocate that he owed the early granting of his request to the
powerful influence of the French minister. And Manasseh, on his part,
was not slow to perceive that the advocate's chief concern was lest his
fair client, at this critical time, should be seen in public in the
company of a strange young man. It might hurt her case irremediably.
With a full understanding of the situation, Manasseh took leave of the
princess, who indeed was looking very down-hearted at the prospect of
missing what she had so ardently desired. But she was schooled to the
denial of her own pleasure, and so quietly shook hands with her
caller--then went to the window to watch his retreating form.