The pope followed his retreating form with a glance of sadness and a
shake of the head.
“He is past help,” murmured he; “he runs to his ruin, and the voice of
warning is unheeded. But how, if he should happen to be right? How, if
he with his worldly wisdom and his theory of earthly happiness, should
be more conformable to the will of God than we with our virtue and our
doctrine of renunciation? Ah, yes, the world is so beautiful, it seems
made entirely for pleasure and enjoyment, and yet men wander through it
with tearful eyes, disregarding its beauty, and refusing to share
its pleasures. All, except man, is free on earth. He alone lies in
constraining bands, and his heart bleeds while all creation rejoices.
No, no, that cannot be; every individual does what he can to render
mankind free and happy, and I also will do my part. God has laid great
power in my hand, and I will use it so long as it is mine.”
Thus speaking, the pope left the garden, and hastened up to his study.
“Signor Galiandro,” said he, to his private secretary, “did you not
speak to me to-day of several petitions received, in which people begged
for dispensations from monk and cloister vows?”
Signor Galiandro smilingly rummaged among a mass of papers that covered
the pope’s writing-table.
“In the last four weeks some fifty such petitions have been received.
Since your holiness has released several monks and nuns from their vows,
all these pious brides of Christ and these consecrated priests seem
to have tired of their cloister life, and long to be out in the world
again.”
“Whoever does not freely and willingly remain in the house of the Lord,
we will not retain them,” said Ganganelli. “Compelled service of the
Lord is no service, and the prayer of the lips without the concurrence
of the heart is null! Give me all these petitions that I may grant them!
The love of the world is awakened in these monks and nuns, and we will
give back to the world what belongs to the world. With their resisting
and struggling hearts they will make but bad priests and nuns; perhaps
it will be better for them to become founders of families. And they
who honestly do their duty, equally serve God, whether they are in a
cloister or in the bosoms of their families.”
The pope seated himself at his writing-table, and after having carefully
examined all the petitions for dispensations, signed his consent, and
smilingly handed them back to his secretary.
“I hope we have here made some people happy,” said he, rising, “and
therefore it may, perhaps, be allowed us also to be happy in our own way
for a quarter of an hour.”
He lightly touched the silver bell suspended over his writing-table, and
at the immediately opened door appeared the pleasant and well-nourished
face of brother Lorenzo, the Franciscan monk, who performed the whole
service of the pope.
“Lorenzo,” said Ganganelli, with a smile, “let us go down into the
poultry-yard. You must show me the young chickens of which you told me
yesterday. And hear, would it be asking too much to beg of you to bring
my dinner into the garden?”
“I would that you could ask too much,” said brother Lorenzo, waddling
after his master, who was descending the stairs leading to the
court-yard. “I really wish, your holiness, that it were asking too
much, for then your dinner would be at least a little more desirable
and heavier to transport! Was such a thing ever heard of? the father of
Christianity keeps a table like that of the poorest begging monk, and is
satisfied with milk, fruit, bread, and vegetables, while the fattest of
capons and ducks are crammed in vain for him, and his cellar is replete
with the most generous wines.”
“Well, well, scold not,” said Ganganelli, smiling; “have we not for
years felt ourselves well in the Franciscan cloister, it never once
occurring to us to wish ourselves better off! Why should I now quit the
habits of years and accustom myself to other usages? When I was yet a
Franciscan monk, I always had, thanks to our simple manner of living, a
very healthy stomach, and would you have me spoil it now, merely because
I have become pope? It has always remained the same human body, Lorenzo,
and all the rest is only falsehood and fraud! How few years is it since
you and I were in the cloister, and you served the poor Franciscan monk
as a lay brother! You then called me brother Clement, and they all did
the same, and now you no longer call me brother, but holy father! How
can your brother of yesterday be your father of to-day? We are here
alone, Lorenzo; nobody sees or hears us. We would for once cease to be
holy father, and for a quarter of an hour become again brother Clement.”
“Ahem! it was not so bad there,” simpered Lorenzo. “It was yet very
pleasant in our dear cloister, and I often think, brother, that you were
far happier then than now, when every one falls upon his knees to kiss
your slipper. It must be very dull to be always holy, always so great
and sublime, and always revered and adored!”
“Therefore let us go to our ducks and hens,” said the pope. “The people
have made a bugbear of me, before which they fall upon the earth. But
the good animals, who understand nothing of these things, they
cackle and grunt, and gabble at me, as if I were nothing but a common
goose-herd and by no means the sainted father of Christendom! Come, come
to my dear brutes, who are so frank and sincere that they cackle and
gabble directly in my face as soon as their beaks and snouts are grown.
They are not so humble and devoted, so adoring and cringing, as these
men who prostrate themselves before me with humble and hypocritical
devotion, but who secretly curse me and wish my death, that there may be
a change in the papacy! Come, come, to our honest geese!”
Brother Lorenzo handed to the pope the willow basket filled with corn
and green leaves, and both, with hasty steps and laughing faces, betook
themselves to the poultry-yard; the ducks and geese fluttered to
them with a noisy gabbling as soon as they caught sight of the
provender-basket, and Ganganelli laughingly said: “It seems as if I were
here in the conclave, and listening to the contention of the cardinals
as they quarrel about the choice of a new pope. Lorenzo, I should well
like to know who will succeed me in the sacred chair and hold the keys
of St. Peter! That will be a stormy conclave!--Be quiet, my dear ducks
and geese! Indeed, you are in the right, I forgot my duty! Well, well, I
will give you your food now--here it is!”
And the pope with full hands strewed the corn among the impatiently
gabbling geese, and heartily laughed at the eagerness with which they
threw themselves upon it.
“And is it not with men as with these dear animals?” said he, laughing;
“When one satisfies them with food, they become silent, mild, and
gentle. Princes should always remember that, and before all things
satiate their subjects with food, if they would have a tranquil and
unopposed government! Ah, that reminds me of our own poor, Lorenzo! Many
petitions have been received, much misery has been described, and many
heart-rending complaints have been made to me!”
“That is because they know you are always giving and would rather suffer
want yourself than refuse gifts to others,” growled Lorenzo. “Hardly
half the month is past, and we are already near the end of our means!”
“Already?” exclaimed the pope, with alarm. “And I believe I yet need
much money. There is a father of fourteen children who has fallen from
a scaffolding and broken both legs. We must care for him, Lorenzo; the
children must not want for bread!”
“That is understood, that is Christian duty,” said Lorenzo, eagerly.
“Give me the address, I will go to him yet to-day! And how much money
shall I take with me?”
“Well, I thought,” timidly responded Ganganelli, “that five scudi would
not be too much!”
Lorenzo compassionately shrugged his shoulders. “You can never learn
the value of money,” said he; “I am now to take _five_ scudi to these
_fourteen_ children.”
“Is it not enough?” joyfully asked Ganganelli. “Well, I thank God that
you are so disposed! I only feared you would refuse me so much, because
my treasury, as you say, is already empty. But if we have something
left, give much, much more! At least a hundred scudi, Lorenzo!”
“That is always the way with you; from extreme to extreme!” grumbled
Lorenzo. “First too little, then too much! I shall take to them twenty
scudi, and that will be sufficient!”
“Give them thirty,” begged Ganganelli, “do you hear, thirty, brother
Lorenzo. Thirty scudi is yet a very small sum!”
“Ah, what do you know about money?” answered Lorenzo, laughing; “these
geese here understand the matter better than you, brother Clement.”
“Well, it is for that reason I have made you my cashier,” laughed
Ganganelli. “A prince will always be well advised when he chooses
a sensible and well-instructed servant for that which he does not
understand himself. To acknowledge his ignorance on the proper occasion
does honor to a prince, and procures him more respect than if he sought
to give himself the appearance of knowing and understanding everything.
Come, Lorenzo, let us go into the garden; you see that these fowls care
nothing for us now; as they are satiated, they despise our provender.
Come, let us go farther!”
“Yes, into the garden!” exclaimed Lorenzo, with a mysterious smile.
“Come, brother Clement, I have prepared a little surprise for you there!
Come and see it!”
And the two old men turned their steps toward the garden.
“Follow me,” said Lorenzo, preceding the pope, and leading him to a more
solitary and better screened part of the garden. “Now stoop a little and
creep through here, and then we are at the place.”
The pope carefully followed the directions of his leader, and worked his
way through the obstruction of the myrtle-bushes until he arrived at
a small circular place, in the centre of which, shaded by tall
olive-trees, was a turf-seat surrounded by tendrils of ivy, and before
which was a small table of wood, yet retaining its natural covering of
bark.
“See, this is my surprise!” said Lorenzo.
Ganganelli stood silent and motionless, with folded hands. A deep
emotion was visible in his gentle mien, and tears rolled slowly down
over his cheeks.
“Well, is it not well copied, and true to nature?” asked Lorenzo, whose
eyes beamed with satisfaction.
“My favorite spot in the garden of the Franciscan convent!” said
Ganganelli in a tone trembling with emotion. “Yes, yes, Lorenzo,
you have represented it exactly, you know well enough what gives me
pleasure! Accept my thanks, my dear good brother.”
And, while giving his hand to the monk, his eye wandered with gentle
delight over the place, with its beautiful trees and green reposing
bank, and thoughtfully rested upon each individual object.
“So was it,” he murmured low, “precisely so; yes, yes, in this place
have I passed my fairest and most precious hours; what have I not
thought and dreamed as a youth and as a man, how many wishes, how
many hopes have there thrilled my bosom, and how few of them have been
realized!”
“But one thing has been realized,” said Lorenzo, “greater than all you
could have dreamed or hoped! Who would ever have thought it possible
that the poor, unknown Franciscan monk would become the greatest and
most sublime prince in the whole world, the father of all Christendom?
That is, indeed, a happiness that brother Clement, upon his grass-bank
in the Franciscan convent, could never have expected!”
“You, then, consider it a happiness,” said Ganganelli, slowly letting
himself down upon the grass-bank. “Yes, yes, such are you good human
beings! wherever there is a little bit of show, a little bit of outward
splendor, you immediately conclude that there is great happiness. This
proves that you see only the outward form, paying no regard to what is
concealed under that form, and which is often very bitter. Believe me,
Lorenzo, in these times there is no very great happiness in being pope
and the so-called father of Christendom. The princes have become very
troublesome and disobedient children; they are no longer willing to
recognize our paternal authority, and if the holy father does not
manifest a complaisant friendliness toward these refractory princely
children, and wink at their independence, they will renounce the whole
connection and quit the paternal mansion. We should then, indeed, be the
holy father of Christendom, but no longer have any children under the
paternal authority! For having so expressed myself, I shall never be
pardoned by the cardinals and princes of the Church; it has made them
my deadly enemies, and yet it is with these principles alone that I have
succeeded in bringing the refractory Portuguese court again under my
parental control!
“But here in this pleasant place let us dismiss such unpleasant
thoughts,” the pope more cheerfully continued, after a pause. “Here
I will forget that I am pope; here I will never be anything more than
brother Clement of the Franciscan convent, nor shall the cares and
troubles of the pope, nor his holiness or infallibility, accompany him
to this dear quiet place. Here I will only be a man, and forgetting my
cramping highness and my forced splendor, will here right humanly enjoy
the sun and this soft green grass, and in deep draughts inhale this
sweet balsamic air. Ah, how happy one may yet be if he can for a moment
escape from the envelope of dignity by which he is kept a chrysalis, and
freely exercise the butterfly wings of manhood! And hear me for once,
brother Lorenzo, so very human has your pope here become, that he feels
a right fresh human appetite. If all here is as it used to be at the
convent, then must you have something to appease my hunger.”
Brother Lorenzo nodded with a sly smile. Stepping to the side of the
grassy bank, and slipping aside a small door concealed by the grass, he
disclosed a walled excavation, filled with fruits and pastry.
“I see you have forgotten nothing!” joyfully exclaimed Ganganelli,
taking some of the fragrant fruit which Lorenzo tendered him. “Ah, you
make me very happy, Lorenzo.”
Saying this, he threw his arm around Lorenzo’s neck, and silently
pressed him to his bosom.
Brother Lorenzo was equally silent, but he no longer laughed;
his usually cheerful face assumed a wonderfully clear and pleased
expression, and two large tears rolled down over his cheek--but they
were tears of joy.