was no nearer solution. He was still possessed by an ardent desire to see
the Pope, but could in no wise tell how to satisfy it, so frequent were
the delays and so greatly had he been frightened by Monsignor Nani's
predictions of the dire consequences which might attend any imprudent
action. And so, foreseeing a prolonged sojourn, he at last betook himself
to the Vicariate in order that his "celebret" might be stamped, and
afterwards said his mass each morning at the Church of Santa Brigida,
where he received a kindly greeting from Abbe Pisoni, Benedetta's former
confessor.
One Monday evening he resolved to repair early to Donna Serafina's
customary reception in the hope of learning some news and expediting his
affairs. Perhaps Monsignor Nani would look in; perhaps he might be lucky
enough to come across some cardinal or domestic prelate willing to help
him. It was in vain that he had tried to extract any positive information
from Don Vigilio, for, after a short spell of affability and willingness,
Cardinal Pio's secretary had relapsed into distrust and fear, and avoided
Pierre as if he were resolved not to meddle in a business which, all
considered, was decidedly suspicious and dangerous. Moreover, for a
couple of days past a violent attack of fever had compelled him to keep
his room.
Thus the only person to whom Pierre could turn for comfort was Victorine
Bosquet, the old Beauceronne servant who had been promoted to the rank of
housekeeper, and who still retained a French heart after thirty years'
residence in Rome. She often spoke to the young priest of Auneau, her
native place, as if she had left it only the previous day; but on that
particular Monday even she had lost her wonted gay vivacity, and when she
heard that he meant to go down in the evening to see the ladies she
wagged her head significantly. "Ah! you won't find them very cheerful,"
said she. "My poor Benedetta is greatly worried. Her divorce suit is not
progressing at all well."
All Rome, indeed, was again talking of this affair. An extraordinary
revival of tittle-tattle had set both white and black worlds agog. And so
there was no need for reticence on Victorine's part, especially in
conversing with a compatriot. It appeared, then, that, in reply to
Advocate Morano's memoir setting forth that the marriage had not been
consummated, there had come another memoir, a terrible one, emanating
from Monsignor Palma, a doctor in theology, whom the Congregation of the
Council had selected to defend the marriage. As a first point, Monsignor
Palma flatly disputed the alleged non-consummation, questioned the
certificate put forward on Benedetta's behalf, and quoted instances
recorded in scientific text-books which showed how deceptive appearances
often were. He strongly insisted, moreover, on the narrative which Count
Prada supplied in another memoir, a narrative well calculated to inspire
doubt; and, further, he so turned and twisted the evidence of Benedetta's
own maid as to make that evidence also serve against her. Finally he
argued in a decisive way that, even supposing the marriage had not been
consummated, this could only be ascribed to the resistance of the
Countess, who had thus set at defiance one of the elementary laws of
married life, which was that a wife owed obedience to her husband.
Next had come a fourth memoir, drawn up by the reporter of the
Congregation, who analysed and discussed the three others, and
subsequently the Congregation itself had dealt with the matter, opining
in favour of the dissolution of the marriage by a majority of one
vote--such a bare majority, indeed, that Monsignor Palma, exercising his
rights, had hastened to demand further inquiry, a course which brought
the whole /procedure/ again into question, and rendered a fresh vote
necessary.
"Ah! the poor Contessina!" exclaimed Victorine, "she'll surely die of
grief, for, calm as she may seem, there's an inward fire consuming her.
It seems that Monsignor Palma is the master of the situation, and can
make the affair drag on as long as he likes. And then a deal of money had
already been spent, and one will have to spend a lot more. Abbe Pisoni,
whom you know, was very badly inspired when he helped on that marriage;
and though I certainly don't want to soil the memory of my good mistress,
Countess Ernesta, who was a real saint, it's none the less true that she
wrecked her daughter's life when she gave her to Count Prada."
The housekeeper paused. Then, impelled by an instinctive sense of
justice, she resumed. "It's only natural that Count Prada should be
annoyed, for he's really being made a fool of. And, for my part, as there
is no end to all the fuss, and this divorce is so hard to obtain, I
really don't see why the Contessina shouldn't live with her Dario without
troubling any further. Haven't they loved one another ever since they
were children? Aren't they both young and handsome, and wouldn't they be
happy together, whatever the world might say? Happiness, /mon Dieu/! one
finds it so seldom that one can't afford to let it pass."
Then, seeing how greatly surprised Pierre was at hearing such language,
she began to laugh with the quiet composure of one belonging to the
humble classes of France, whose only desire is a quiet and happy life,
irrespective of matrimonial ties. Next, in more discreet language, she
proceeded to lament another worry which had fallen on the household,
another result of the divorce affair. A rupture had come about between
Donna Serafina and Advocate Morano, who was very displeased with the ill
success of his memoir to the congregation, and accused Father
Lorenza--the confessor of the Boccanera ladies--of having urged them into
a deplorable lawsuit, whose only fruit could be a wretched scandal
affecting everybody. And so great had been Morano's annoyance that he had
not returned to the Boccanera mansion, but had severed a connection of
thirty years' standing, to the stupefaction of all the Roman
drawing-rooms, which altogether disapproved of his conduct. Donna
Serafina was, for her part, the more grieved as she suspected the
advocate of having purposely picked the quarrel in order to secure an
excuse for leaving her; his real motive, in her estimation, being a
sudden, disgraceful passion for a young and intriguing woman of the
middle classes.
That Monday evening, when Pierre entered the drawing-room, hung with
yellow brocatelle of a flowery Louis XIV pattern, he at once realised
that melancholy reigned in the dim light radiating from the lace-veiled
lamps. Benedetta and Celia, seated on a sofa, were chatting with Dario,
whilst Cardinal Sarno, ensconced in an arm-chair, listened to the
ceaseless chatter of the old relative who conducted the little Princess
to each Monday gathering. And the only other person present was Donna
Serafina, seated all alone in her wonted place on the right-hand side of
the chimney-piece, and consumed with secret rage at seeing the chair on
the left-hand side unoccupied--that chair which Morano had always taken
during the thirty years that he had been faithful to her. Pierre noticed
with what anxious and then despairing eyes she observed his entrance, her
glance ever straying towards the door, as though she even yet hoped for
the fickle one's return. Withal her bearing was erect and proud; she
seemed to be more tightly laced than ever; and there was all the wonted
haughtiness on her hard-featured face, with its jet-black eyebrows and
snowy hair.
Pierre had no sooner paid his respects to her than he allowed his own
worry to appear by inquiring whether they would not have the pleasure of
seeing Monsignor Nani that evening. Thereupon Donna Serafina could not
refrain from answering: "Oh! Monsignor Nani is forsaking us like the
others. People always take themselves off when they can be of service."
She harboured a spite against the prelate for having done so little to
further the divorce in spite of his many promises. Beneath his outward
show of extreme willingness and caressing affability he doubtless
concealed some scheme of his own which he was tenaciously pursuing.
However, Donna Serafina promptly regretted the confession which anger had
wrung from her, and resumed: "After all, he will perhaps come. He is so
good-natured, and so fond of us."
In spite of the vivacity of her temperament she really wished to act
diplomatically, so as to overcome the bad luck which had recently set in.
Her brother the Cardinal had told her how irritated he was by the
attitude of the Congregation of the Council; he had little doubt that the
frigid reception accorded to his niece's suit had been due in part to the
desire of some of his brother cardinals to be disagreeable to him.
Personally, he desired the divorce, as it seemed to him the only means of
ensuring the perpetuation of the family; for Dario obstinately refused to
marry any other woman than his cousin. And thus there was an accumulation
of disasters; the Cardinal was wounded in his pride, his sister shared
his sufferings and on her own side was stricken in the heart, whilst both
lovers were plunged in despair at finding their hopes yet again deferred.
As Pierre approached the sofa where the young folks were chatting he
found that they were speaking of the catastrophe. "Why should you be so
despondent?" asked Celia in an undertone. "After all, there was a
majority of a vote in favour of annulling the marriage. Your suit hasn't
been rejected; there is only a delay."
But Benedetta shook her head. "No, no! If Monsignor Palma proves
obstinate his Holiness will never consent. It's all over."
"Ah! if one were only rich, very rich!" murmured Dario, with such an air
of conviction that no one smiled. And, turning to his cousin, he added in
a whisper: "I must really have a talk with you. We cannot go on living
like this."
In a breath she responded: "Yes, you are right. Come down to-morrow
evening at five. I will be here alone."
Then dreariness set in; the evening seemed to have no end. Pierre was
greatly touched by the evident despair of Benedetta, who as a rule was so
calm and sensible. The deep eyes which illumined her pure, delicate,
infantile face were now blurred as by restrained tears. He had already
formed a sincere affection for her, pleased as he was with her equable if
somewhat indolent disposition, the semblance of discreet good sense with
which she veiled her soul of fire. That Monday even she certainly tried
to smile while listening to the pretty secrets confided to her by Celia,
whose love affairs were prospering far more than her own. There was only
one brief interval of general conversation, and that was brought about by
the little Princess's aunt, who, suddenly raising her voice, began to
speak of the infamous manner in which the Italian newspapers referred to
the Holy Father. Never, indeed, had there been so much bad feeling
between the Vatican and the Quirinal. Cardinal Sarno felt so strongly on
the subject that he departed from his wonted silence to announce that on
the occasion of the sacrilegious festivities of the Twentieth of
September, celebrating the capture of Rome, the Pope intended to cast a
fresh letter of protest in the face of all the Christian powers, whose
indifference proved their complicity in the odious spoliation of the
Church.
"Yes, indeed! what folly to try and marry the Pope and the King,"
bitterly exclaimed Donna Serafina, alluding to her niece's deplorable
marriage.
The old maid now seemed quite beside herself; it was already so late that
neither Monsignor Nani nor anybody else was expected. However, at the
unhoped-for sound of footsteps her eyes again brightened and turned
feverishly towards the door. But it was only to encounter a final
disappointment. The visitor proved to be Narcisse Habert, who stepped up
to her, apologising for making so late a call. It was Cardinal Sarno, his
uncle by marriage, who had introduced him into this exclusive /salon/,
where he had received a cordial reception on account of his religious
views, which were said to be most uncompromising. If, however, despite
the lateness of the hour, he had ventured to call there that evening, it
was solely on account of Pierre, whom he at once drew on one side.
"I felt sure I should find you here," he said. "Just now I managed to see
my cousin, Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo, and I have some good news for you.
He will see us to-morrow at about eleven in his rooms at the Vatican."
Then, lowering his voice: "I think he will endeavour to conduct you to
the Holy Father. Briefly, the audience seems to me assured."
Pierre was greatly delighted by this promised certainty, which came to
him so suddenly in that dreary drawing-room, where for a couple of hours
he had been gradually sinking into despair! So at last a solution was at
hand!
Meantime Narcisse, after shaking hands with Dario and bowing to Benedetta
and Celia, approached his uncle the Cardinal, who, having rid himself of
the old relation, made up his mind to talk. But his conversation was
confined to the state of his health, and the weather, and sundry
insignificant anecdotes which he had lately heard. Not a word escaped him
respecting the thousand complicated matters with which he dealt at the
Propaganda. It was as though, once outside his office, he plunged into
the commonplace and the unimportant by way of resting from the anxious
task of governing the world. And after he had spoken for a time every one
got up, and the visitors took leave.
"Don't forget," Narcisse repeated to Pierre, "you will find me at the
Sixtine Chapel to-morrow at ten. And I will show you the Botticellis
before we go to our appointment."
At half-past nine on the following morning Pierre, who had come on foot,
was already on the spacious Piazza of St. Peter's; and before turning to
the right, towards the bronze gate near one corner of Bernini's
colonnade, he raised his eyes and lingered, gazing at the Vatican.
Nothing to his mind could be less monumental than the jumble of buildings
which, without semblance of architectural order or regularity of any
kind, had grown up in the shadow cast by the dome of the basilica. Roofs
rose one above the other and broad, flat walls stretched out chance-wise,
just as wings and storeys had been added. The only symmetry observable
above the colonnade was that of the three sides of the court of San
Damaso, where the lofty glass-work which now encloses the old /loggie/
sparkled in the sun between the ruddy columns and pilasters, suggesting,
as it were, three huge conservatories.
And this was the most beautiful palace in the world, the largest of all
palaces, comprising no fewer than eleven thousand apartments and
containing the most admirable masterpieces of human genius! But Pierre,
disillusioned as he was, had eyes only for the lofty facade on the right,
overlooking the piazza, for he knew that the second-floor windows there
were those of the Pope's private apartments. And he contemplated those
windows for a long time, and remembered having been told that the fifth
one on the right was that of the Pope's bed-room, and that a lamp could
always be seen burning there far into the night.
What was there, too, behind that gate of bronze which he saw before
him--that sacred portal by which all the kingdoms of the world
communicated with the kingdom of heaven, whose august vicar had secluded
himself behind those lofty, silent walls? From where he stood Pierre
gazed on that gate with its metal panels studded with large square-headed
nails, and wondered what it defended, what it concealed, what it shut off
from the view, with its stern, forbidding air, recalling that of the gate
of some ancient fortress. What kind of world would he find behind it,
what treasures of human charity jealously preserved in yonder gloom, what
revivifying hope for the new nations hungering for fraternity and
justice? He took pleasure in fancying, in picturing the one holy pastor
of humanity, ever watching in the depths of that closed palace, and,
while the nations strayed into hatred, preparing all for the final reign
of Jesus, and at last proclaiming the advent of that reign by
transforming our democracies into the one great Christian community
promised by the Saviour. Assuredly the world's future was being prepared
behind that bronze portal; assuredly it was that future which would issue
forth.
But all at once Pierre was amazed to find himself face to face with
Monsignor Nani, who had just left the Vatican on his way to the
neighbouring Palace of the Inquisition, where, as Assessor, he had his
residence.
"Ah! Monsignor," said Pierre, "I am very pleased. My friend Monsieur
Habert is going to present me to his cousin, Monsignor Gamba del Zoppo,
and I think I shall obtain the audience I so greatly desire."
Monsignor Nani smiled with his usual amiable yet keen expression. "Yes,
yes, I know." But, correcting himself as it were, he added: "I share your
satisfaction, my dear son. Only, you must be prudent." And then, as if
fearing that the young priest might have understood by his first words
that he had just seen Monsignor Gamba, the most easily terrified prelate
of the whole prudent pontifical family, he related that he had been
running about since an early hour on behalf of two French ladies, who
likewise were dying of a desire to see the Pope. However, he greatly
feared that the help he was giving them would not prove successful.
"I will confess to you, Monsignor," replied Pierre, "that I myself was
getting very discouraged. Yes, it is high time I should find a little
comfort, for my sojourn here is hardly calculated to brace my soul."
He went on in this strain, allowing it to be seen that the sights of Rome
were finally destroying his faith. Such days as those which he had spent
on the Palatine and along the Appian Way, in the Catacombs and at St.
Peter's, grievously disturbed him, spoilt his dream of Christianity
rejuvenated and triumphant. He emerged from them full of doubt and
growing lassitude, having already lost much of his usually rebellious
enthusiasm.
Still smiling, Monsignor Nani listened and nodded approvingly. Yes, no
doubt that was the fatal result. He seemed to have foreseen it, and to be
well satisfied thereat. "At all events, my dear son," said he,
"everything is going on well, since you are now certain that you will see
his Holiness."
"That is true, Monsignor; I have placed my only hope in the very just and
perspicacious Leo XIII. He alone can judge me, since he alone can
recognise in my book his own ideas, which I think I have very faithfully
set forth. Ah! if he be willing he will, in Jesus' name and by democracy
and science, save this old world of ours!"
Pierre's enthusiasm was returning again, and Nani, smiling more and more
affably with his piercing eyes and thin lips, again expressed approval:
"Certainly; quite so, my dear son. You will speak to him, you will see."
Then as they both raised their heads and looked towards the Vatican, Nani
carried his amiability so far as to undeceive Pierre with respect to the
Pope's bed-room. No, the window where a light was seen every evening was
simply that of a landing where the gas was kept burning almost all night.
The window of his Holiness's bed-chamber was the second one farther on.
Then both relapsed into silence, equally grave as they continued to gaze
at the facade.
"Well, till we meet again, my dear son," said Nani at last. "You will
tell me of your interview, I hope."
As soon as Pierre was alone he went in by the bronze portal, his heart
beating violently, as if he were entering some redoubtable sanctuary
where the future happiness of mankind was elaborated. A sentry was on
duty there, a Swiss guard, who walked slowly up and down in a grey-blue
cloak, below which one only caught a glimpse of his baggy red, black, and
yellow breeches; and it seemed as if this cloak of sober hue were
purposely cast over a disguise in order to conceal its strangeness, which
had become irksome. Then, on the right-hand, came the covered stairway
conducting to the Court of San Damaso; but to reach the Sixtine Chapel it
was necessary to follow a long gallery, with columns on either hand, and
ascend the royal staircase, the Scala Regia. And in this realm of the
gigantic, where every dimension is exaggerated and replete with
overpowering majesty, Pierre's breath came short as he ascended the broad
steps.
He was much surprised on entering the Sixtine Chapel, for it at first
seemed to him small, a sort of rectangular and lofty hall, with a
delicate screen of white marble separating the part where guests
congregate on the occasion of great ceremonies from the choir where the
cardinals sit on simple oaken benches, while the inferior prelates remain
standing behind them. On a low platform to the right of the soberly
adorned altar is the pontifical throne; while in the wall on the left
opens the narrow singing gallery with its balcony of marble. And for
everything suddenly to spread out and soar into the infinite one must
raise one's head, allow one's eyes to ascend from the huge fresco of the
Last Judgment, occupying the whole of the end wall, to the paintings
which cover the vaulted ceiling down to the cornice extending between the
twelve windows of white glass, six on either hand.
Fortunately there were only three or four quiet tourists there; and
Pierre at once perceived Narcisse Habert occupying one of the cardinals'
seats above the steps where the train-bearers crouch. Motionless, and
with his head somewhat thrown back, the young man seemed to be in
ecstasy. But it was not the work of Michael Angelo that he thus
contemplated. His eyes never strayed from one of the earlier frescoes
below the cornice; and on recognising the priest he contented himself
with murmuring: "Ah! my friend, just look at the Botticelli." Then, with
dreamy eyes, he relapsed into a state of rapture.
Pierre, for his part, had received a great shock both in heart and in
mind, overpowered as he was by the superhuman genius of Michael Angelo.
The rest vanished; there only remained, up yonder, as in a limitless
heaven, the extraordinary creations of the master's art. That which at
first surprised one was that the painter should have been the sole
artisan of the mighty work. No marble cutters, no bronze workers, no
gilders, no one of another calling had intervened. The painter with his
brush had sufficed for all--for the pilasters, columns, and cornices of
marble, for the statues and the ornaments of bronze, for the /fleurons/
and roses of gold, for the whole of the wondrously rich decorative work
which surrounded the frescoes. And Pierre imagined Michael Angelo on the
day when the bare vault was handed over to him, covered with plaster,
offering only a flat white surface, hundreds of square yards to be
adorned. And he pictured him face to face with that huge white page,
refusing all help, driving all inquisitive folks away, jealously,
violently shutting himself up alone with his gigantic task, spending four
and a half years in fierce solitude, and day by day adding to his
colossal work of creation. Ah! that mighty work, a task to fill a whole
lifetime, a task which he must have begun with quiet confidence in his
own will and power, drawing, as it were, an entire world from his brain
and flinging it there with the ceaseless flow of creative virility in the
full heyday of its omnipotence.