THE PRISONER OF THE VATICAN.
ROME, October 15th.
It is a great loss to travellers who come to Rome to see the sights,
that the Pope has shut himself up in the Vatican. In the good old
times, when he was not only a spiritual, but a civil potentate--not
only Pope, but King--he used to ride about a great deal to take a
survey of his dominions. One might meet him of an afternoon taking an
airing on the Pincian Hill, or on some of the roads leading out of
Rome. He always appeared in a magnificent state carriage, of red
trimmed with gold, with six horses richly caparisoned, and outriders
going before, and the Swiss guards following after. [What would poor
old Peter have said, if he had met his successor coming along in such
mighty pomp?] The Cardinals too, arrayed in scarlet, had their red
carriages and their fine liveries, and their horses pranced up and
down the Corso. Thus Rome was very gay. The processions too were
endless, and they were glorious to behold. It was indeed a grand sight
to see the Pope and all his Cardinals, in their scarlet dresses,
sweeping into St. Peter's and kneeling together in the nave, while the
muskets of the Swiss guards rang on the pavement, in token of the
might of arms which then attended the spiritual power.
But now, alas! all this is ended. The spoiler has entered into the
holy place, and the Holy Father appears no more in the streets. Since
that fatal day when the Italian troops marched into Rome--the 20th of
September, 1870--he has not put his foot in a carriage, nor shown
himself to the Roman people. The Cardinals, who live in different
parts of the city, are obliged to go about; but they have laid aside
all their fine raiment and glittering equipage, and appear only in
solemn black, as if they were all undertakers, attending the funeral
of the Papacy. The Pope has shut himself up closely in the Vatican. He
is, indeed, just as free to go abroad as ever. There is nothing to
prevent his riding about Rome as usual. But no, the dear old man will
have it that he is restrained of his liberty, and calls himself "a
prisoner!" To be sure he is not exactly in a guard-house, or in a
cell, such as those in the Inquisition just across the square of St.
Peter, where heretics used to be accommodated with rather close
quarters. His "prison" is a large one--a palace, with hundreds of
richly furnished apartments, where he is surrounded with luxury and
splendor, and where pilgrims flock to him from all parts of the earth.
It is a princely retreat for one in his old age, and a grand theatre
on which to assume the role of martyr. Almost anybody would be willing
to play the part of prisoner, if by this means he might attract the
attention and sympathy of the whole civilized world.[7]
But so complete is this voluntary confinement of the Pope, that he has
not left the Vatican in these five years, not even to go into St.
Peter's, though it adjoins the Vatican, and he can enter it by a
private passage. It is whispered that he did go in on one occasion,
_to see his own portrait_, which is wrought in mosaic, and placed over
the bronze statue of St. Peter. But on this occasion the public were
excluded, and when the doors were opened he had disappeared. He will
not even take part in the great festivals of the Church, which are
thus shorn of half their splendor.
How well I remember the gorgeous ceremonies of Holy Week, beginning
with Palm Sunday, and ending with Easter. I was one of the foreigners
in the Sistine Chapel on Good Friday, when the Pope's choir, composed
of eunuchs, sang the _Miserere_; and on the Piazza of St. Peter's at
Easter, when the Pope was carried on men's shoulders to the great
central window, where, in the presence of an immense crowd, he
pronounced his benediction _urbi et orbi_; and the cannon of the
Castle of St. Angelo thundered forth the mighty blessings which had
thus descended on "the city and the world." I saw too, that night, the
illumination of St. Peter's, when arches and columns and roof and dome
were hung with lamps, that when all lighted together, made such a
flame that it seemed as if the very heavens were on fire.
But now all this glory and splendor have gone out in utter night.
There are no more blessings for unbelievers--nor even for the
faithful, except as they seek them within the sacred precincts of the
Vatican, where alone the successor of St. Peter is now visible. It is
a great loss to those who have not been in Rome before, especially to
those enthusiastic persons who feel that they cannot "die happy"
unless they have seen the Pope.
But I do not need anything to gratify my curiosity. I have seen the
Pope many times before, and I recognize in the photographs which are
in all shop windows the same face which I saw a quarter of a century
ago--only aged indeed by the lapse of these many years. _It is a good
face._ I used to think he looked like Dr. Sprague of Albany, who
certainly had as benevolent a countenance as ever shone forth in
kindness on one's fellow creatures. All who know the Pope personally,
speak of him as a very kind-hearted man, with most gentle and winning
manners. This I fully believe, but is it not a strong argument against
the system in which he is bound, that it turns a disposition so sweet
into bitterness, and leads one of the most amiable of men to do things
very inconsistent with the meek character of the Vicar of Christ; to
curse where he ought to bless, and to call down fire from heaven on
his enemies? But his natural instincts are all good. When I was here
before he was universally popular. His predecessor, Gregory XVI., had
been very conservative. But when Cardinal Mastai Ferretti--for that
was his name--was elected Pope, he began a series of reforms, which
elated the Roman people, and caused the eyes of all Europe to be
turned towards him as the coming man. He was the idol of the hour. It
seemed as if he had been raised up by Providence to lead the nations
in the path of peaceful progress. But the Revolutions of 1848, in
Paris and elsewhere, frightened him. And when Garibaldi took
possession of Rome, and proclaimed the Republic, his ardor for reform
was entirely gone. He escaped from the city disguised as a valet, and
fled for protection to the King of Naples, and was afterwards brought
back by French troops. From that time he surrendered himself entirely
to the Reactionary party, and since then, while as well meaning as
ever, he is the victim of a system, from which he cannot escape, and
which makes him do things wholly at variance with his kindly and
generous nature.
Even the staunchest Protestants who go to see the Pope are charmed
with him. They had, perhaps, thought of him as the "Giant Pope," whom
Bunyan describes as sitting at the mouth of a cave, and glaring
fiercely at Pilgrims as they go by; and they are astonished to find
him a very simple old man, pleasant in conversation, fond of ladies'
society, with a great deal of humor, enjoying a joke as much as
anybody, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and a face all smiles, as
if he had never uttered an anathema. This is indeed very agreeable,
but all the more does it make one astounded at the incongruity between
such pleasant pastime and his awful spiritual pretensions--for this
man who stands there, chatting so familiarly, and laughing so
heartily, professes to believe that he is the vicegerent of the
Almighty upon earth, and that he has the power to open and shut the
gates of hell! God forgive him for the blasphemy of such a thought! It
seems incredible that he can believe it himself; or, if he did, that
the curses could roll so lightly from his lips. But anathemas appear
to be a part of his daily recreation. He seems really to enjoy firing
a volley into his enemies, as one would fire a gun into a flock of
pigeons. Here is the last shot which I find in the paper of this very
day:
"The Roman Catholic papers at The Hague publish a pastoral letter from
the Pope to the Archbishop of Utrecht, by which his Holiness makes
known that Johannes Heykamp has been excommunicated, as he has allowed
himself to be elected and ordained as archbishop of the Jansenists in
Holland, and also Johannes Rinkel, who calls himself Bishop of
Haarlem, who performed the ordination. The Pope also declares to be
excommunicated all those who assisted at the ceremony. The Pope also
calls this ordination 'a vile and despicable deed,' and warns all good
Catholics not to have any intercourse with the perpetrators of it, but
to pray without ceasing that God may turn their hearts."
It is noteworthy that all these anathemas are simply for
ecclesiastical offences, not for any immorality, however gross. The
Queen of Spain may be notorious for her profligacy, yet she receives
no rebuke, she is even as a beloved daughter, to whom the Pope sends
presents, so long as she is devout and reverent towards him, or
towards the Church. So any prince, or private gentleman, may break all
the Ten Commandments, and still be a good Catholic; but if he doubts
Infallibility, he is condemned. All sins may be forgiven, except
rebellion against the Church or the Pope. He has excommunicated
Doellinger, the most learned Catholic theologian in Europe, and Father
Hyacinthe, the most eloquent preacher. Poor Victor Emmanuel comes in
for oft-repeated curses, simply because in a great political crisis he
yielded to the inevitable. _He_ did not seize Rome. It was _the
Italian people_, whom he could no more stop than he could stop the
inrolling of the sea. If he had not gone before the people they would
have gone _over_ him. But for this he is cut off from the communion of
the Catholic Church, and delivered over, so far as the anathema of the
Pope can do it, to the pains of hell.
And yet if we allege this as proof that some remains of human
infirmity still cling to the Infallible Head of the Church, or that a
very kind nature has been turned into gall and bitterness, we are told
by those who have just come from a reception that he was all sweetness
and smiles. An English priest who is in our hotel had an audience last
evening, and he says: "The Holy Father was very jolly, laughing
heartily at every pleasantry." It does one good to see an old man so
merry and light-hearted, but does not such gayety seem a little forced
or out of place? Men who have no cares on their minds may laugh and be
gay, but for the Vicar of Christ does it not seem to imply that he
attaches no weight to the maledictions that he throws about so
liberally? If he felt the awful meaning of what he utters, he could
not so easily preserve his good spirits and his merriment, while he
consigns his fellow-men to perdition. One would think that if obliged
to pronounce such a doom upon any, he would do it with tears--that he
would retire into his closet, and throw ashes upon his head, and come
forth in sackcloth, overwhelmed at the hard necessity which compelled
the stern decree. But it does not seem to interfere with any of his
enjoyments. He gives a reception at which he is smiling and gracious,
and then proceeds to cast out some wretched fellow-creature from the
communion of the Holy Catholic Church. There is something shocking in
the easy, off-hand manner in which he despatches his enemies. He
anathematizes with as little concern as he takes his breakfast,
apparently attaching as much solemnity to one as the other. The
mixture of levity with stern duties is not a pleasant sight, as when
one orders an execution between the puffs of a cigar. But this holy
man, this Vicegerent of God on earth, pronounces a sentence more awful
still; for he orders what, _according to his theory_, is worse than an
execution--an excommunication. Yet he does it quite unconcerned. If he
does not order an anathema between the puffs of a cigar, he does it
between two pinches of snuff. Such levity would be inconceivable, if
we could suppose that he really believes that his curses have power to
harm, that they cast a feather's weight into the scale that decides
the eternal destiny of a human soul. We do not say that he is
conscious of any hypocrisy. Far from it. It is one of those cases,
which are so common in the world, in which there is an unconscious
contradiction between one's private feelings and his public conduct;
in which a man is far better than his theory. We do not believe the
Pope is half as bad as he would make himself to be--half so resentful
and vindictive as he appears. As we sometimes say, in excuse for harsh
language, "he don't mean anything by it." He _does_ mean something,
viz., to assert his own authority. But he does not quite desire to
deliver up his fellow-creatures to the pains of eternal death.
We are truly sorry for the Pope. He is an old man, and with all his
natural gentleness, may be supposed to have something of the
irritability of age. And now he is engaged in a contest in which he is
sure to fail; he is fighting against the inevitable, against a course
of things which he has no more power to withstand than to breast the
current of Niagara. He might as well take his stand on the brink of
the great cataract, and think by the force of prayers or maledictions
to stop the flowing of the mighty waters. All the powers of Europe are
against him. Among the sovereigns he has not a single friend, or, at
least, one who has any power to help him. The Emperor of Germany is
this week on a visit to Milan as the guest of Victor Emmanuel. But he
will not come to Rome to pay his respects to the Pope. The Emperor of
Austria came to Venice last spring, but neither did he, though he is a
good Catholic, continue his journey as far as the Vatican. Thus the
Pope is left alone. For this he has only himself to blame. He has
forced the conflict, and now he is in a false position, from which
there is no escape.
All Europe is looking anxiously to the event of the Pope's death. He
has already filled the Papal chair longer than any one of his two
hundred and fifty-six predecessors, running back to St. Peter. But he
is still hale and strong, and though he is eighty-three years old,[8]
he may yet live a few years longer. He belongs to a very long-lived
family; his grandfather died at ninety-three, his father at
eighty-three, his mother at eighty-eight, his eldest brother at
ninety. Protestants certainly may well pray that he should be blessed
with the utmost length of days; for the longer he lives, and the more
obstinate he is in his reactionary policy, the more pronounced does he
force Italy to become in its antagonism, and not only Italy, but
Austria and Bavaria, as well as Protestant Germany. May he live to be
a hundred years old!
FOOTNOTES:
[7] This pretence of being a prisoner is so plainly a device to excite
public sympathy, that it is exaggerated in the most absurd manner. A
lady, just returned from the Rhine, tells me that in Germany the
Catholics circulate pictures of the Pope _behind the bars of a
prison_, and even _sell straws of his bed_, to show that he is
compelled to sleep on a pallet of straw, like a convict! The same
thing is done in Ireland.
[8] I give his age as put down in the books, where the date of his
birth is given as May 13, 1792; although our English priest tells me
that the Pope himself says that he is eighty-_five_, adding playfully
that "his enemies have deprived him of his dominions, and his friends
of two years of his life." My informant says that, notwithstanding his
great age, he is in perfect health, with not a sign of weakness or
decay about him, physically or intellectually. He is a tough old oak,
that may stand all the storms that rage about him for years to come.