AN AUDIENCE AT THE VATICAN
The remainder of my days in Rome were only three or four. I had seen
much of it that has been in no way indicated here. True to my promise
I had looked up at his hotel my traveling acquaintance, the able and
distinguished Mr. H., and had walked about some of the older sections
of the city hearing him translate Greek and Latin inscriptions of
ancient date with the ease with which I put my ordinary thought into
English. Together we visited the Farnese Palace, the Mamertine Prison,
the Temple of Vesta, Santa Maria in Cosmedin and other churches too
numerous and too pointless to mention. It was interesting to me to note
the facility of his learning and the depth of his philosophy. In spite
of the fact that life, in the light of his truly immense knowledge of
history and his examination of human motives, seemed a hodge-podge of
contrarieties and of ethical contradictions, nevertheless he believed
that through all the false witness and pretense and subtlety of the
ages, through the dominating and apparently guiding impulses of lust
and appetite and vanity, seemingly untrammeled by mercy, tenderness or
any human consideration, there still runs a constructive, amplifying,
art-enlarging, life-developing tendency which is comforting,
dignifying, and purifying, making for larger and happier days for
each and all. It did not matter to him that the spectacle as we read
it historically is always one of the strong dominating the weak, of
the strong battling with the strong, of greed, hypocrisy and lying.
Even so, the world was moving on--to what he could not say,--we were
coming into an ethical understanding of things. The mass was becoming
more intelligent and better treated. Opportunity, of all sorts, was
being more widely diffused, even if grudgingly so. We would never again
have a Nero or a Caligula he thought--not on this planet. He called my
attention to that very interesting agreement between leading families
of the Achæan League in lower Greece in which it was stipulated that
the “ruling class should be honored like gods” and that the subject
class should be “held in subservience like beasts.” He wanted to know
if even a suspicion of such an attitude to-day would not cause turmoil.
I tried out his philosophy by denying it, but he was firm. Life was
better to him, not merely different as some might take it to be.
I gave a dinner at my hotel one evening in order to pay my respects
to those who had been so courteous to me and put it in charge of Mrs.
Barfleur, who was desirous of nothing better. She was fond of managing.
Mrs. Q. sat at my left and Mrs. H. at my right and we made a gay hour
out of history, philosophy, Rome, current character and travel. The
literary executor of Oscar Wilde was present, Mr. Oscar Browning, and
my Greek traveler and merchant, Mr. Bouris. An American publisher and
his wife, then in Rome, had come, and we were as gay as philosophers
and historians and antiquaries can be. Mr. H. drew a laugh by
announcing that he never read a book under 1500 years of age any more,
and the literary executor of Oscar Wilde told a story of the latter
to the effect that the more he contemplated his own achievements, the
more he came to admire himself, and the less use he had for other
people’s writings. One of the most delightful stories I have heard in
years was told by H. who stated that an Italian thief, being accused
of stealing three rings from the hands of a statue of the Virgin that
was constantly working miracles, had declared that, as he was kneeling
before her in solemn prayer, the Virgin had suddenly removed the rings
from her finger and handed them to him. But the priests who were
accusing him (servitors of the Church) and the judge who was trying
him, all firm believers, would not accept this latest development of
the miraculous tendencies of the image and he was sent to jail. Alas!
that true wit should be so poorly rewarded.
One of the last things I did in Rome was to see the Pope. When I came
there, Lent was approaching, and I was told that at this time the
matter was rather difficult. None of my friends seemed to have the
necessary influence, and I had about decided to give it up, when one
day I met the English representative of several London dailies who
told me that sometimes, under favorable conditions, he introduced his
friends, but that recently he had overworked his privilege and could
not be sure. On the Friday before leaving, however, I had a telephone
message from his wife, saying that she was taking her cousin and would
I come. I raced into my evening clothes though it was early morning and
was off to her apartment in the Via Angelo Brunetti, from which we were
to start.
Presentation to the Pope is one of those dull formalities made
interesting by the enthusiasm of the faithful and the curiosity of
the influential who are frequently non-catholic, but magnetized by
the amazing history of the Papacy and the scope and influence of the
Church. All the while that I was in Rome I could not help feeling
the power and scope of this organization--much as I condemn its
intellectual stagnation and pharisaism. Personally I was raised in
the Catholic Church, but outgrew it at an early age. My father died
a rapt believer in it and I often smile when I think how impossible
it would have been to force upon him the true history of the Papacy
and the Catholic hierarchy. His subjugation to priestly influence was
truly a case of the blind leading the blind. To him the Pope was truly
infallible. There could be no wrong in any Catholic priest, and so on
and so forth. The lives of Alexander VI and Boniface VIII would have
taught him nothing.
In a way, blind adherence to principles is justifiable, for we have not
as yet solved the riddle of the universe and one may well agree with
St. Augustine that the vileness of the human agent does not invalidate
the curative or corrective power of a great principle. An evil doctor
cannot destroy the value of medicine; a corrupt lawyer or judge cannot
invalidate pure law. Pure religion and undefiled continues, whether
there are evil priests or no, and the rise and fall of the Roman
Catholic hierarchy has nothing to do with what is true in the teachings
of Christ.
It was interesting to me as I walked about Rome to see the indications
or suggestions of the wide-spread influence of the Catholic
Church--priests from England, Ireland, Spain, Egypt and monks from
Palestine, the Philippines, Arabia, and Africa. I was standing in the
fair in the Campo dei Fiori, where every morning a vegetable-market
is held and every Wednesday a fair where antiquities and curiosities
of various lands are for sale, when an English priest, seeing my
difficulties in connection with a piece of jewelry, offered to
translate for me and a little later a French priest inquired in French
whether I spoke his language. In the Colosseum I fell in with a German
priest from Baldwinsville, Kentucky, who invited me to come and see a
certain group of Catacombs on a morning when he intended to say mass
there, which interested me but I was prevented by another engagement;
and at the Continental there were stopping two priests from Buenos
Ayres; and so it went. The car lines which led down the Via Nazionale
to St. Peter’s and the Vatican was always heavily patronized by
priests, monks, and nuns; and I never went anywhere that I did not
encounter groups of student-priests coming to and from their studies.
This morning that we drove to the papal palace at eleven was as usual
bright and warm. My English correspondent and his wife, both extremely
intelligent, had been telling of the steady changes in Rome, its rapid
modernization, the influence of the then Jewish mayor in its civic
improvement and the waning influence of the Catholics in the matter of
local affairs. “All Rome is probably Catholic,” he said, “or nearly so;
but it isn’t the kind of Catholicism that cares for papal influence in
political affairs. Why, here not long ago, in a public speech the mayor
charged that the papacy was the cause of Rome’s being delayed at least
a hundred years in its progress and there was lots of applause. The
national parliament which meets here is full of Catholics but it is not
interested in papal influence. It’s all the other way about. They seem
to be willing to let the Pope have his say in spiritual matters but he
can’t leave the Vatican and priests can’t mix in political affairs very
much.”
I thought, what a change from the days of Gregory VII and even the
popes of the eighteenth century!
The rooms of the Vatican devoted to the Pope--at least those to which
the public is admitted at times of audience seemed to me merely large
and gaudy without being impressive. One of the greatest follies of
architecture, it seems to me, is the persistent thought that mere
size without great beauty of form has any charm whatever. The Houses
of Parliament in England are large but they are also shapely. As much
might be said for the Palais Royal in Paris though not for the Louvre
and almost not for Versailles. The Vatican is another great splurge of
nothing--mere size without a vestige of charm as to detail.
All I remember of my visit was that arriving at the palace entrance
we were permitted by papal guards to ascend immense flights of steps,
that we went through one large red room after another where great
chandeliers swung from the center and occasional decorations or
over-elaborate objects of art appeared on tables or pedestals. There
were crowds of people in each room, all in evening dress, the ladies
with black lace shawls over their heads, the men in conventional
evening clothes. Over-elaborately uniformed guards stood about, and
prelates of various degrees of influence moved to and fro. We took our
station in a room adjoining the Pope’s private chambers where we waited
patiently while various personages of influence and importance were
privately presented.
It was dreary business waiting. Loud talking was not to be thought
of, and the whispering on all sides as the company increased was
oppressive. There was a group of ladies from Venice who were obviously
friends of the Holy Father’s family. There were two brown monks,
barefooted and with long gray beards, patriarchal types, who stationed
themselves by one wall near the door. There were three nuns and a
mother superior from somewhere who looked as if they were lost in
prayer. This was a great occasion to them. Next to me was a very
official person in a uniform of some kind who constantly adjusted his
neck-band and smoothed his gloved hands. Some American ladies, quite
severe and anti-papistical if I am not mistaken, looked as if they were
determined not to believe anything they saw, and two Italian women of
charming manners had in tow an obstreperous small boy of say five or
six years of age in lovely black velvet, who was determined to be as
bad and noisy as he could. He beat his feet and asked questions in a
loud whisper and decided that he wished to change his place of abode
every three seconds; all of which was accompanied by many “sh-sh-es”
from his elders and whisperings in his ear, severe frowns from the
American ladies and general indications of disapproval, with here and
there a sardonic smile of amusement.
Every now and then a thrill of expectation would go over the company.
The Pope was coming! Papal guards and prelates would pass through the
room with speedy movements and it looked as though we would shortly
be in the presence of the vicar of Christ. I was told that it was
necessary to rest on one knee at least, which I did, waiting patiently
the while I surveyed the curious company. The two brown monks were
appropriately solemn, their heads bent. The sisters were praying.
The Italian ladies were soothing their restive charge. I told my
correspondent-friend of the suicide of a certain journalist, whom he
and his wife knew, on the day that I left New York--a very talented but
adventurous man; and he exclaimed: “My God! don’t tell that to my wife.
She’ll feel it terribly.” We waited still longer and finally in sheer
weariness began jesting foolishly; I said that it must be that the Pope
and Merry del Val, the Pope’s secretary, were inside playing jackstones
with the papal jewels. This drew a convulsive laugh from my newspaper
friend--I will call him W.--who began to choke behind his handkerchief.
Mrs. W. whispered to me that if we did not behave we would be put out
and I pictured myself and W. being unceremoniously hustled out by the
forceful guards, which produced more laughter. The official beside me,
who probably did not speak English, frowned solemnly. This produced
a lull, and we waited a little while longer in silence. Finally the
sixth or seventh thrill of expectation produced the Holy Father, the
guards and several prelates making a sort of aisle of honor before
the door. All whispering ceased. There was a rustle of garments as
each one settled into a final sanctimonious attitude. He came in, a
very tired-looking old man in white wool cassock and white skull cap,
a great necklace of white beads about his neck and red shoes on his
feet. He was stout, close knit, with small shrewd eyes, a low forehead,
a high crown, a small, shapely chin. He had soft, slightly wrinkled
hands, the left one graced by the papal ring. As he came in he uttered
something in Italian and then starting on the far side opposite the
door he had entered came about to each one, proffering the hand which
some merely kissed and some seized on and cried over, as if it were the
solution of a great woe or the realization of a too great happiness.
The mother superior did this and one of the Italian ladies from Venice.
The brown monks laid their foreheads on it and the official next to me
touched it as though it were an object of great value.
I was interested to see how the Supreme Pontiff--the Pontifex Maximus
of all the monuments--viewed all this. He looked benignly but rather
wearily down on each one, though occasionally he turned his head away,
or, slightly interested, said something. To the woman whose tears
fell on his hands he said nothing. With one of the women from Venice
he exchanged a few words. Now and then he murmured something. I could
not tell whether he was interested but very tired, or whether he was
slightly bored. Beyond him lay room after room crowded with pilgrims
in which this performance had to be repeated. Acquainted with my
newspaper correspondent he gave no sign. At me he scarcely looked at
all, realizing no doubt my critical unworthiness. At the prim, severe
American woman he looked quizzically. Then he stood in the center of
the room and having uttered a long, soft prayer, which my friend W.
informed me was very beautiful, departed. The crowd arose. We had to
wait until all the other chambers were visited by him and until he
returned guarded on all sides by his soldiers and disappeared. There
was much conversation, approval, and smiling satisfaction. I saw him
once more, passing quickly between two long lines of inquisitive,
reverential people, his head up, his glance straight ahead and then he
was gone.
We made our way out and somehow I was very glad I had come. I had
thought all along that it really did not make any difference whether I
saw him or not and that I did not care, but after seeing the attitude
of the pilgrims and his own peculiar mood I thought it worth while.
Pontifex Maximus! The Vicar of Christ! What a long way from the
Catacomb-worshiping Christians who had no Pope at all, who gathered
together “to sing responsively a hymn to Christ as to a God” and
who bound themselves by a sacramental oath to commit no thefts, nor
robberies, nor adulteries, nor break their word, nor deny a deposit
when called upon, and who for nearly three hundred years had neither
priest nor altar, nor bishop nor Pope, but just the rumored gospels of
Christ.