I
The Cardinal said very little to Percy when they met again that evening,
beyond congratulating him on the way he had borne himself with the Pope.
It seemed that the priest had done right by his extreme frankness. Then
he told him of his duties.
Percy was to retain the couple of rooms that had been put at his
disposal; he was to say mass, as a rule, in the Cardinal’s oratory; and
after that, at nine, he was to present himself for instructions: he was
to dine at noon with the Cardinal, after which he was to consider
himself at liberty till _Ave Maria_: then, once more he was to be at his
master’s disposal until supper. The work he would principally have to do
would be the reading of all English correspondence, and the drawing up
of a report upon it.
Percy found it a very pleasant and serene life, and the sense of home
deepened every day. He had an abundance of time to himself, which he
occupied resolutely in relaxation. From eight to nine he usually walked
abroad, going sedately through the streets with his senses passive,
looking into churches, watching the people, and gradually absorbing the
strange naturalness of life under ancient conditions. At times it
appeared to him like an historical dream; at times it seemed that there
was no other reality; that the silent, tense world of modern
civilisation was itself a phantom, and that here was the simple
naturalness of the soul’s childhood back again. Even the reading of the
English correspondence did not greatly affect him, for the stream of his
mind was beginning to run clear again in this sweet old channel; and he
read, dissected, analysed and diagnosed with a deepening tranquillity.
There was not, after all, a great deal of news. It was a kind of lull
after storm. Felsenburgh was still in retirement; he had refused the
offers made to him by France and Italy, as that of England; and,
although nothing definite was announced, it seemed that he was confining
himself at present to an unofficial attitude. Meanwhile the Parliaments
of Europe were busy in the preliminary stages of code-revision. Nothing
would be done, it was understood, until the autumn sessions.
Life in Rome was very strange. The city had now become not only the
centre of faith but, in a sense, a microcosm of it. It was divided into
four huge quarters--Anglo-Saxon, Latin, Teutonic and Eastern--besides
Trastevere, which was occupied almost entirely by Papal offices,
seminaries, and schools. Anglo-Saxondom occupied the southwestern
quarter, now entirely covered with houses, including the Aventine, the
Celian and Testaccio. The Latins inhabited old Rome, between the Course
and the river; the Teutons the northeastern quarter, bounded on the
south by St. Laurence’s Street; and the Easterns the remaining quarter,
of which the centre was the Lateran. In this manner the true Romans were
scarcely conscious of intrusion; they possessed a multitude of their own
churches, they were allowed to revel in narrow, dark streets and hold
their markets; and it was here that Percy usually walked, in a passion
of historical retrospect. But the other quarters were strange enough,
too. It was curious to see how a progeny of Gothic churches, served by
northern priests, had grown up naturally in the Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic
districts, and how the wide, grey streets, the neat pavements, the
severe houses, showed how the northerns had not yet realised the
requirements of southern life. The Easterns, on the other hand,
resembled the Latins; their streets were as narrow and dark, their
smells as overwhelming, their churches as dirty and as homely, and their
colours even more brilliant.
Outside the walls the confusion was indescribable. If the city
represented a carved miniature of the world, the suburbs represented the
same model broken into a thousand pieces, tumbled in a bag and shot out
at random. So far as the eye could see, on all sides from the roof of
the Vatican, there stretched an endless plain of house-roofs, broken by
spires, towers, domes and chimneys, under which lived human beings of
every race beneath the sun. Here were the great manufactories, the
monster buildings of the new world, the stations, the schools, the
offices, all under secular dominion, yet surrounded by six millions of
souls who lived here for love of religion. It was these who had
despaired of modern life, tired out with change and effort, who had fled
from the new system for refuge to the Church, but who could not obtain
leave to live in the city itself. New houses were continually springing
up in all directions. A gigantic compass, fixed by one leg in Rome, and
with a span of five miles, would, if twirled, revolve through packed
streets through its entire circle. Beyond that too houses stretched into
the indefinite distance.
But Percy did not realise the significance of all that he saw, until the
occasion of the Pope’s name-day towards the end of August.
It was yet cool and early, when he followed his patron, whom he was to
serve as chaplain, along the broad passages of the Vatican towards the
room where the Pope and Cardinals were to assemble. Through a window, as
he looked out into the Piazza, the crowd was yet more dense, if that
were possible, than it had been an hour before. The huge oval square was
cobbled with heads, through which ran a broad road, kept by papal troops
for the passage of the carriages; and up the broad ribbon, white in the
eastern light, came monstrous vehicles, a blaze of gilding and colour
and cream tint; slow cheers swelled up and died, and through all came
the rush and patter of wheels over the stones, like the sound of a
tide-swept pebbly beach.
As they waited in an ante-chamber, halted by the pressure in front and
behind--a pack of scarlet and white and purple--he looked out again, and
realised what he had known only intellectually before, that here before
his eyes was the royalty of the old world assembled--and he began to
perceive its significance.
Round the steps of the basilica spread a great fan of coaches, each
yoked to eight horses--the white of France and Spain, the black of
Germany, Italy and Russia, and the cream-coloured of England. Those
stood out in the near half-circle, and beyond was the sweep of the
lesser powers: Greece, Norway, Sweden, Roumania and the Balkan States.
One, the Turk, was alone wanting, he reminded himself. The emblems of
some were visible--eagles, lions, leopards--guarding the royal crown
above the roof of each. From the foot of the steps to the head ran a
broad scarlet carpet, lined with soldiers.
Percy leaned against the shutter, and began to meditate. Here was all
that was left of Royalty. He had seen their palaces before, here and
there in the various quarters, with standards flying, and
scarlet-liveried men lounging on the steps. He had raised his hat a
dozen times as a landau thundered past him up the Course; he had even
seen the lilies of France and the leopards of England pass together in
the solemn parade of the Pincian Hill. He had read in the papers every
now and again during the last five years that family after family had
made its way to Rome, after papal recognition had been granted; he had
been told by the Cardinal on the previous evening that William of
England, with his Consort, had landed at Ostia in the morning and that
the tale of the Powers was complete. But he had never before realised
the stupendous, overwhelming fact of the assembly of the world’s royalty
under the shadow of Peter’s Throne, nor the appalling danger that its
presence constituted in the midst of a democratic world. That world, he
knew, affected to laugh at the folly and the childishness of it all--at
the desperate play-acting of Divine Right on the part of fallen and
despised families; but the same world, he knew very well, had not yet
lost quite all its sentiment; and if that sentiment should happen to
become resentful---
The pressure relaxed; Percy slipped out of the recess, and followed in
the slow-moving stream.
Half-an-hour later he was in his place among the ecclesiastics, as the
papal procession came out through the glimmering dusk of the chapel of
the Blessed Sacrament into the nave of the enormous church; but even
before he had entered the chapel he heard the quiet roar of recognition
and the cry of the trumpets that greeted the Supreme Pontiff as he came
out, a hundred yards ahead, borne on the _sedia gestatoria_, with the
fans going behind him. When Percy himself came out, five minutes later,
walking in his quaternion, and saw the sight that was waiting, he
remembered with a sudden throb at his heart that other sight he had seen
in London in a summer dawn three months before....
Far ahead, seeming to cleave its way through the surging heads, like the
poop of an ancient ship, moved the canopy beneath which sat the Lord of
the world, and between him and the priest, as if it were the wake of
that same ship, swayed the gorgeous procession--Protonotaries Apostolic,
Generals of Religious Orders and the rest--making its way along with
white, gold, scarlet and silver foam between the living banks on either
side. Overhead hung the splendid barrel of the roof, and far in front
the haven of God’s altar reared its monstrous pillars, beneath which
burned the seven yellow stars that were the harbour lights of sanctity.
It was an astonishing sight, but too vast and bewildering to do anything
but oppress the observers with a consciousness of their own futility.
The enormous enclosed air, the giant statues, the dim and distant roofs,
the indescribable concert of sound--of the movement of feet, the murmur
of ten thousand voices, the peal of organs like the crying of gnats, the
thin celestial music--the faint suggestive smell of incense and men and
bruised bay and myrtle--and, supreme above all, the vibrant atmosphere
of human emotion, shot with supernatural aspiration, as the Hope of the
World, the holder of Divine Vice-Royalty, passed on his way to stand
between God and man--this affected the priest as the action of a drug
that at once lulls and stimulates, that blinds while it gives new
vision, that deafens while it opens stopped ears, that exalts while it
plunges into new gulfs of consciousness. Here, then, was the other
formulated answer to the problem of life. The two Cities of Augustine
lay for him to choose. The one was that of a world self-originated,
self-organised and self-sufficient, interpreted by such men as Marx and
Herve, socialists, materialists, and, in the end, hedonists, summed up
at last in Felsenburgh. The other lay displayed in the sight he saw
before him, telling of a Creator and of a creation, of a Divine purpose,
a redemption, and a world transcendent and eternal from which all sprang
and to which all moved. One of the two, John and Julian, was the Vicar,
and the other the Ape, of God.... And Percy’s heart in one more spasm of
conviction made its choice....
But the summit was not yet reached.
As Percy came at last out from the nave beneath the dome, on his way to
the tribune beyond the papal throne, he became aware of a new element.
A great space was cleared about the altar and confession, extending, as
he could see at least on his side, to the point that marked the entrance
to the transepts; at this point ran rails straight across from side to
side, continuing the lines of the nave. Beyond this red-hung barrier lay
a gradual slope of faces, white and motionless; a glimmer of steel
bounded it, and above, a third of the distance down the transept, rose
in solemn serried array a line of canopies. These were of scarlet, like
cardinalitial baldachini, but upon the upright surface of each burned
gigantic coats supported by beasts and topped by crowns. Under each was
a figure or two--no more--in splendid isolation, and through the
interspaces between the thrones showed again a misty slope of faces.
His heart quickened as he saw it--as he swept his eyes round and across
to the right and saw as in a mirror the replica of the left in the right
transept. It was there then that they sat--those lonely survivors of
that strange company of persons who, till half-a-century ago, had
reigned as God’s temporal Vicegerents with the consent of their
subjects. They were unrecognised, now, save by Him from whom they drew
their sovereignty--pinnacles clustering and hanging from a dome, from
which the walls had been withdrawn. These were men and women who had
learned at last that power comes from above, and their title to rule
came not from their subjects but from the Supreme Ruler of
all--shepherds without sheep, captains without soldiers to command. It
was piteous--horribly piteous, yet inspiring. The act of faith was so
sublime; and Percy’s heart quickened as he understood it. These, then,
men and women like himself, were not ashamed to appeal from man to God,
to assume insignia which the world regarded as playthings, but which to
them were emblems of supernatural commission. Was there not mirrored
here, he asked himself, some far-off shadow of One Who rode on the colt
of an ass amid the sneers of the great and the enthusiasm of
children?...
* * * * *
It was yet more kindling as the mass went on, and he saw the male
sovereigns come down to do their services at the altar, and to go to and
fro between it and the Throne. There they went bareheaded, the stately
silent figures. The English king, once again _Fidei Defensor_, bore the
train in place of the old king of Spain, who, with the Austrian Emperor,
alone of all European sovereigns, had preserved the unbroken continuity
of faith. The old man leaned over his fald-stool, mumbling and weeping,
even crying out now and again in love and devotion, as, like Simeon, he
saw his Salvation. The Austrian Emperor twice administered the Lavabo;
the German sovereign, who had lost his throne and all but his life upon
his conversion four years before, by a new privilege placed and withdrew
the cushion, as his Lord kneeled before the Lord of them both. So
movement by movement the gorgeous drama was enacted; the murmuring of
the crowds died to a stillness that was but one wordless prayer as the
tiny White Disc rose between the white hands, and the thin angelic music
pealed in the dome. For here was the one hope of these thousands, as
mighty and as little as once within the Manger. There was none other
that fought for them but only God. Surely then, if the blood of men and
the tears of women could not avail to move the Judge and Observer of all
from His silence, surely at least here the bloodless Death of His only
Son, that once on Calvary had darkened heaven and rent the earth,
pleaded now with such sorrowful splendour upon this island of faith amid
a sea of laughter and hatred--this at least must avail! How could it
not?
* * * * *
Percy had just sat down, tired out with the long ceremonies, when the
door opened abruptly, and the Cardinal, still in his robes, came in
swiftly, shutting the door behind him.
“Father Franklin,” he said, in a strange breathless voice, “there is the
worst of news. Felsenburgh is appointed President of Europe.”
II
It was late that night before Percy returned, completely exhausted by
his labours. For hour after hour he had sat with the Cardinal, opening
despatches that poured into the electric receivers from all over Europe,
and were brought in one by one into the quiet sitting-room. Three times
in the afternoon the Cardinal had been sent for, once by the Pope and
twice to the Quirinal.
There was no doubt at all that the news was true; and it seemed that
Felsenburgh must have waited deliberately for the offer. All others he
had refused. There had been a Convention of the Powers, each of whom had
been anxious to secure him, and each of whom had severally failed; these
private claims had been withdrawn, and an united message sent. The new
proposal was to the effect that Felsenburgh should assume a position
hitherto undreamed of in democracy; that he should receive a House of
Government in every capital of Europe; that his veto of any measure
should be final for three years; that any measure he chose to introduce
three times in three consecutive years should become law; that his title
should be that of President of Europe. From his side practically nothing
was asked, except that he should refuse any other official position
offered him that did not receive the sanction of all the Powers. And all
this, Percy saw very well, involved the danger of an united Europe
increased tenfold. It involved all the stupendous force of Socialism
directed by a brilliant individual. It was the combination of the
strongest characteristics of the two methods of government. The offer
had been accepted by Felsenburgh after eight hours’ silence.
It was remarkable, too, to observe how the news had been accepted by the
two other divisions of the world. The East was enthusiastic; America was
divided. But in any case America was powerless: the balance of the world
was overwhelmingly against her.
Percy threw himself, as he was, on to his bed, and lay there with
drumming pulses, closed eyes and a huge despair at his heart. The world
indeed had risen like a giant over the horizons of Rome, and the holy
city was no better now than a sand castle before a tide. So much he
grasped. As to how ruin would come, in what form and from what
direction, he neither knew nor cared. Only he knew now that it would
come.
He had learned by now something of his own temperament; and he turned
his eyes inwards to observe himself bitterly, as a doctor in mortal
disease might with a dreadful complacency diagnose his own symptoms. It
was even a relief to turn from the monstrous mechanism of the world to
see in miniature one hopeless human heart. For his own religion he no
longer feared; he knew, as absolutely as a man may know the colour of
his eyes, that it was secure again and beyond shaking. During those
weeks in Rome the cloudy deposit had run clear and the channel was once
more visible. Or, better still, that vast erection of dogma, ceremony,
custom and morals in which he had been educated, and on which he had
looked all his life (as a man may stare upon some great set-piece that
bewilders him), seeing now one spark of light, now another, flare and
wane in the darkness, had little by little kindled and revealed itself
in one stupendous blaze of divine fire that explains itself. Huge
principles, once bewildering and even repellent, were again luminously
self-evident; he saw, for example, that while Humanity-Religion
endeavoured to abolish suffering the Divine Religion embraced it, so
that the blind pangs even of beasts were within the Father’s Will and
Scheme; or that while from one angle one colour only of the web of life
was visible--material, or intellectual, or artistic--from another the
Supernatural was as eminently obvious. Humanity-Religion could only be
true if at least half of man’s nature, aspirations and sorrows were
ignored. Christianity, on the other hand, at least included and
accounted for these, even if it did not explain them. This ... and this
... and this ... all made the one and perfect whole. There was the
Catholic Faith, more certain to him than the existence of himself: it
was true and alive. He might be damned, but God reigned. He might go
mad, but Jesus Christ was Incarnate Deity, proving Himself so by death
and Resurrection, and John his Vicar. These things were as the bones of
the Universe--facts beyond doubting--if they were not true, nothing
anywhere was anything but a dream.
Difficulties?--Why, there were ten thousand. He did not in the least
understand why God had made the world as it was, nor how Hell could be
the creation of Love, nor how bread was transubstantiated into the Body
of God but--well, these things were so. He had travelled far, he began
to see, from his old status of faith, when he had believed that divine
truth could be demonstrated on intellectual grounds. He had learned now
(he knew not how) that the supernatural cried to the supernatural; the
Christ without to the Christ within; that pure human reason indeed could
not contradict, yet neither could it adequately prove the mysteries of
faith, except on premisses visible only to him who receives Revelation
as a fact; that it is the moral state, rather than the intellectual, to
which the Spirit of God speaks with the greater certitude. That which he
had both learned and taught he now knew, that Faith, having, like man
himself, a body and a spirit--an historical expression and an inner
verity--speaks now by one, now by another. This man believes because he
sees--accepts the Incarnation or the Church from its credentials; that
man, perceiving that these things are spiritual facts, yields himself
wholly to the message and authority of her who alone professes them, as
well as to the manifestation of them upon the historical plane; and in
the darkness leans upon her arm. Or, best of all, because he has
believed, now he sees.
So he looked with a kind of interested indolence at other tracts of his
nature.
First, there was his intellect, puzzled beyond description, demanding,
Why, why, why? Why was it allowed? How was it conceivable that God did
not intervene, and that the Father of men could permit His dear world to
be so ranged against Him? What did He mean to do? Was this eternal
silence never to be broken? It was very well for those that had the
Faith, but what of the countless millions who were settling down in
contented blasphemy? Were these not, too, His children and the sheep of
His pasture? What was the Catholic Church made for if not to convert the
world, and why then had Almighty God allowed it, on the one side, to
dwindle to a handful, and, on the other, the world to find its peace
apart from Him?
He considered his emotions, but there was no comfort there, no stimulus.
Oh! yes; he could pray still, by mere cold acts of the will, and his
theology told him that God accepted such. He could say “_Adveniat regnum
tuum. ... Fiat voluntas tua_,” five thousand times a day, if God wanted
that; but there was no sting or touch, no sense of vibration through the
cords that his will threw up to the Heavenly Throne. What in the world
then did God want him to do? Was it just then to repeat formulas, to lie
still, to open despatches, to listen through the telephone, and to
suffer?
And then the rest of the world--the madness that had seized upon the
nations; the amazing stories that had poured in that day of the men in
Paris, who, raving like Bacchantes, had stripped themselves naked in the
Place de Concorde, and stabbed themselves to the heart, crying out to
thunders of applause that life was too enthralling to be endured; of the
woman who sang herself mad last night in Spain, and fell laughing and
foaming in the concert hall at Seville; of the crucifixion of the
Catholics that morning in the Pyrenees, and the apostasy of three
bishops in Germany.... And this ... and this ... and a thousand more
horrors were permitted, and God made no sign and spoke no word....
There was a tap, and Percy sprang up as the Cardinal came in.
He looked horribly worn; and his eyes had a kind of sunken brilliance
that revealed fever. He made a little motion to Percy to sit down, and
himself sat in the deep chair, trembling a little, and gathering his
buckled feet beneath his red-buttoned cassock.
“You must forgive me, father,” he said. “I am anxious for the Bishop’s
safety. He should be here by now.”
This was the Bishop of Southwark, Percy remembered, who had left England
early that morning.
“He is coming straight through, your Eminence?”
“Yes; he should have been here by twenty-three. It is after midnight, is
it not?”
As he spoke, the bells chimed out the half-hour.
It was nearly quiet now. All day the air had been full of sound; mobs
had paraded the suburbs; the gates of the City had been barred, yet that
was only an earnest of what was to be expected when the world understood
itself.
The Cardinal seemed to recover himself after a few minutes’ silence.
“You look tired out, father,” he said kindly.
Percy smiled.
“And your Eminence?” he said.
The old man smiled too.
“Why, yes,” he said. “I shall not last much longer, father. And then it
will be you to suffer.”
Percy sat up, suddenly, sick at heart.
“Why, yes,” said the Cardinal. “The Holy Father has arranged it. You are
to succeed me, you know. It need be no secret.”
Percy drew a long trembling breath.
“Eminence,” he began piteously.
The other lifted a thin old hand.
“I understand all that,” he said softly. “You wish to die, is it not
so?--and be at peace. There are many who wish that. But we must suffer
first. _Et pati et mori_. Father Franklin, there must be no faltering.”
There was a long silence.
The news was too stunning to convey anything to the priest but a sense
of horrible shock. The thought had simply never entered his mind that
he, a man under forty, should be considered eligible to succeed this
wise, patient old prelate. As for the honour--Percy was past that now,
even had he thought of it. There was but one view before him--of a long
and intolerable journey, on a road that went uphill, to be traversed
with a burden on his shoulders that he could not support.
Yet he recognised its inevitability. The fact was announced to him as
indisputable; it was to be; there was nothing to be said. But it was as
if one more gulf had opened, and he stared into it with a dull, sick
horror, incapable of expression.
The Cardinal first broke the silence.
“Father Franklin,” he said, “I have seen to-day a picture of
Felsenburgh. Do you know whom I at first took it for?”
Percy smiled listlessly.
“Yes, father, I took it for you. Now, what do you make of that?”
“I don’t understand, Eminence.”
“Why---” He broke off, suddenly changing the subject.
“There was a murder in the City to-day,” he said. “A Catholic stabbed a
blasphemer.”
Percy glanced at him again.
“Oh! yes; he has not attempted to escape,” went on the old man. “He is
in gaol.”
“And---”
“He will be executed. The trial will begin to-morrow.... It is sad
enough. It is the first murder for eight months.”
The irony of the position was evident enough to Percy as he sat
listening to the deepening silence outside in the starlit night. Here
was this poor city pretending that nothing was the matter, quietly
administering its derided justice; and there, outside, were the forces
gathering that would put an end to all. His enthusiasm seemed dead.
There was no thrill from the thought of the splendid disregard of
material facts of which this was one tiny instance, none of despairing
courage or drunken recklessness. He felt like one who watches a fly
washing his face on the cylinder of an engine--the huge steel slides
along bearing the tiny life towards enormous death--another moment and
it will be over; and yet the watcher cannot interfere. The supernatural
thus lay, perfect and alive, but immeasurably tiny; the huge forces were
in motion, the world was heaving up, and Percy could do nothing but
stare and frown. Yet, as has been said, there was no shadow on his
faith; the fly he knew was greater than the engine from the superiority
of its order of life; if it were crushed, life would not be the final
sufferer; so much he knew, but how it was so, he did not know.
As the two sat there, again came a step and a tap; and a servant’s face
looked in.
“His Lordship is come, Eminence,” he said.
The Cardinal rose painfully, supporting himself by the table. Then he
paused, seeming to remember something, and fumbled in his pocket.
“See that, father,” he said, and pushed a small silver disc towards the
priest. “No; when I am gone.”
Percy closed the door and came back, taking up the little round object.
It was a coin, fresh from the mint. On one side was the familiar wreath
with the word “fivepence” in the midst, with its Esperanto equivalent
beneath, and on the other the profile of a man, with an inscription.
Percy turned it to read:
“JULIAN FELSENBURGH, LA PREZIDANTE DE UROPO.”
III
It was at ten o’clock on the following morning that the Cardinals were
summoned to the Pope’s presence to hear the allocution.
Percy, from his seat among the Consultors, watched them come in, men of
every nation and temperament and age--the Italians all together,
gesticulating, and flashing teeth; the Anglo-Saxons steady-faced and
serious; an old French Cardinal leaning on his stick, walking with the
English Benedictine. It was one of the great plain stately rooms of
which the Vatican now chiefly consisted, seated length wise like a
chapel. At the lower end, traversed by the gangway, were the seats of
the Consultors; at the upper end, the dais with the papal throne. Three
or four benches with desks before them, standing out beyond the
Consultors’ seats, were reserved for the arrivals of the day before
--prelates and priests who had poured into Rome from every European
country on the announcement of the amazing news.
Percy had not an idea as to what would be said. It was scarcely possible
that nothing but platitudes would be uttered, yet what else could be
said in view of the complete doubtfulness of the situation? All that was
known even this morning was that the Presidentship of Europe was a fact;
the little silver coin he had seen witnessed to that; that there had
been an outburst of persecution, repressed sternly by local authorities;
and that Felsenburgh was to-day to begin his tour from capital to
capital. He was expected in Turin by the end of the week. From every
Catholic centre throughout the world had come in messages imploring
guidance; it was said that apostasy was rising like a tidal wave, that
persecution threatened everywhere, and that even bishops were beginning
to yield.
As for the Holy Father, all was doubtful. Those who knew, said nothing;
and the only rumour that escaped was to the effect that he had spent all
night in prayer at the tomb of the Apostle....
The murmur died suddenly to a rustle and a silence; there was a ripple
of sinking heads along the seats as the door beside the canopy opened,
and a moment later John, _Pater Patrum_, was on his throne.
* * * * *
At first Percy understood nothing. He stared only, as at a picture,
through the dusty sunlight that poured in through the shrouded windows,
at the scarlet lines to right and left, up to the huge scarlet canopy,
and the white figure that sat there. Certainly, these southerners
understood the power of effect. It was as vivid and impressive as a
vision of the Host in a jewelled monstrance. Every accessory was
gorgeous, the high room, the colour of the robes, the chains and
crosses, and as the eye moved along to its climax it was met by a piece
of dead white--as if glory was exhausted and declared itself impotent to
tell the supreme secret. Scarlet and purple and gold were well enough
for those who stood on the steps of the throne--they needed it; but for
Him who sat there nothing was needed. Let colours die and sounds faint
in the presence of God’s Viceroy. Yet what expression was required found
itself adequately provided in that beautiful oval face, the poised
imperious head, the sweet brilliant eyes and the clean-curved lips that
spoke so strongly. There was not a sound in the room, not a rustle, nor
a breathing--even without it seemed as if the world were allowing the
supernatural to state its defence uninterruptedly, before summing up and
clamouring condemnation.
* * * * *
Percy made a violent effort at self-repression, clenched his hands and
listened.
“... Since this then is so, sons in Jesus Christ, it is for us to
answer. We wrestle not, as the Doctor of the Gentiles teaches us,
_against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers, against
the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of
wickedness in the high places. Wherefore_, he continues, _take unto you
the armour of God_; and he further declares to us its nature--_the
girdle of truth, the breastplate of justice, the shoes of peace, the
shield of faith, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit._
“By this, therefore, the Word of God bids us to war, but not with the
weapons of this world, for neither is His kingdom of this world; and it
is to remind you of the principles of this warfare that we have summoned
you to Our Presence.”
The voice paused, and there was a rustling sigh along the seats. Then
the voice continued on a slightly higher note.
“It has ever been the wisdom of Our predecessors, as is also their duty,
while keeping silence at certain seasons, at others to speak freely the
whole counsel of God. From this duty We Ourself must not be deterred by
the knowledge of Our own weakness and ignorance, but to trust rather
that He Who has placed Us on this throne will deign to speak through Our
mouth and use Our words to His glory.
“First, then, it is necessary to utter Our sentence as to the new
movement, as men call it, which has latterly been inaugurated by the
rulers of this world.
“We are not unmindful of the blessings of peace and unity, nor do We
forget that the appearance of these things has been the fruit of much
that we have condemned. It is this appearance of peace that has deceived
many, causing them to doubt the promise of the Prince of Peace that it
is through Him alone that we have access to the Father. That true peace,
passing understanding, concerns not only the relations of men between
themselves, but, supremely, the relations of men with their Maker; and
it is in this necessary point that the efforts of the world are found
wanting. It is not indeed to be wondered at that in a world which has
rejected God this necessary matter should be forgotten. Men have
thought--led astray by seducers--that the unity of nations was the
greatest prize of this life, forgetting the words of our Saviour, Who
said that He came to bring not peace but a sword, and that it is through
many tribulations that we enter God’s Kingdom. First, then, there should
be established the peace of man with God, and after that the unity of
man with man will follow. _Seek ye first_, said Jesus Christ, _the
kingdom of God--and then all these things shall be added unto you._
“First, then, We once more condemn and anathematise the opinions of
those who teach and believe the contrary of this; and we renew once more
all the condemnations uttered by Ourself or Our predecessors against all
those societies, organisations and communities that have been formed for
the furtherance of an unity on another than a divine foundation; and We
remind Our children throughout the world that it is forbidden to them to
enter or to aid or to approve in any manner whatsoever any of those
bodies named in such condemnations.”
Percy moved in his seat, conscious of a touch of impatience.... The
manner was superb, tranquil and stately as a river; but the matter a
trifle banal. Here was this old reprobation of Freemasonry, repeated in
unoriginal language.
“Secondly,” went on the steady voice, “We wish to make known to you Our
desires for the future; and here We tread on what many have considered
dangerous ground.”
Again came that rustle. Percy saw more than one cardinal lean forward
with hand crooked at ear to hear the better. It was evident that
something important was coming.
“There are many points,” went on the high voice, “of which it is not Our
intention to speak at this time, for of their own nature they are
secret, and must be treated of on another occasion. But what We say
here, We say to the world. Since the assaults of Our enemies are both
open and secret, so too must be Our defences. This then is Our
intention.”
The Pope paused again, lifted one hand as if mechanically to his breast,
and grasped the cross that hung there.
“While the army of Christ is one, it consists of many divisions, each of
which has its proper function and object. In times past God has raised
up companies of His servants to do this or that particular work--the
sons of St. Francis to preach poverty, those of St. Bernard to labour in
prayer with all holy women dedicating themselves to this purpose, the
Society of Jesus for the education of youth and the conversion of the
heathen--together with all the other Religious Orders whose names are
known throughout the world. Each such company was raised up at a
particular season of need, and each has corresponded nobly with the
divine vocation. It has also been the especial glory of each, for the
furtherance of its intention, while pursuing its end, to cut off from
itself all such activities (good in themselves) which would hinder that
work for which God had called it into being--following in this matter
the words of our Redeemer, _Every branch that beareth fruit, He purgeth
it that it may bring forth more fruit._ At this present season, then, it
appears to Our Humility that all such Orders (which once more We commend
and bless) are not perfectly suited by the very conditions of their
respective Rules to perform the great work which the time requires. Our
warfare lies not with ignorance in particular, whether of the heathens
to whom the Gospel has not yet come, or of those whose fathers have
rejected it, nor with _the deceitful riches of this world_, nor with
_science falsely so-called_, nor indeed with any one of those
strongholds of infidelity against whom We have laboured in the past.
Rather it appears as if at last the time was come of which the apostle
spoke when he said that _that day shall not come, except there come a
falling away first, and that Man of Sin be revealed, the Son of
Perdition, who opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called
God._
“It is not with this or that force that we are concerned, but rather
with the unveiled immensity of that power whose time was foretold, and
whose destruction is prepared.”
The voice paused again, and Percy gripped the rail before him to stay
the trembling of his hands. There was no rustle now, nothing but a
silence that tingled and shook. The Pope drew a long breath, turned his
head slowly to right and left, and went on more deliberately than ever.
“It seems good, then, to Our Humility, that the Vicar of Christ should
himself invite God’s children to this new warfare; and it is Our
intention to enroll under the title of the Order of Christ Crucified the
names of all who offer themselves to this supreme service. In doing this
We are aware of the novelty of Our action, and the disregard of all such
precautions as have been necessary in the past. We take counsel in this
matter with none save Him Who we believe has inspired it.
“First, then, let Us say, that although obedient service will be
required from all who shall be admitted to this Order, Our primary
intention in instituting it lies in God’s regard rather than in man’s,
in appealing to Him Who asks our generosity rather than to those who
deny it, and dedicating once more by a formal and deliberate act our
souls and bodies to the heavenly Will and service of Him Who alone can
rightly claim such offering, and will accept our poverty.
“Briefly, we dictate only the following conditions.
“None shall be capable of entering the Order except such as shall be
above the age of seventeen years.
“No badge, habit, nor insignia shall be attached to it.
“The Three Evangelical Counsels shall be the foundation of the Rule, to
which we add a fourth intention, namely, that of a desire to receive the
crown of martyrdom and a purpose of embracing it.
“The bishop of every diocese, if he himself shall enter the Order, shall
be the superior within the limits of his own jurisdiction, and alone
shall be exempt from the literal observance of the Vow of Poverty so
long as he retains his see. Such bishops as do not feel the vocation to
the Order shall retain their sees under the usual conditions, but shall
have no Religious claim on the members of the Order.
“Further, We announce Our intention of Ourself entering the Order as its
supreme prelate, and of making Our profession within the course of a few
days.
“Further, We declare that in Our Own pontificate none shall be elevated
to the Sacred College save those who have made their profession in the
Order; and We shall dedicate shortly the Basilica of St. Peter and St.
Paul as the central church of the Order, in which church We shall raise
to the altars without any delay those happy souls who shall lay down
their lives in the pursuance of their vocation.
“Of that vocation it is unnecessary to speak beyond indicating that it
may be pursued under any conditions laid down by the Superiors. As
regards the novitiate, its conditions and requirements, we shall shortly
issue the necessary directions. Each diocesan superior (for it is Our
hope that none will hold back) shall have all such rights as usually
appertain to Religious Superiors, and shall be empowered to employ his
subjects in any work that, in his opinion, shall subserve the glory of
God and the salvation of souls. It is Our Own intention to employ in Our
service none except those who shall make their profession.”
He raised his eyes once more, seemingly without emotion, then he
continued:
“So far, then, We have determined. On other matters We shall take
counsel immediately; but it is Our wish that these words shall be
communicated to all the world, that there may be no delay in making
known what it is that Christ through His Vicar asks of all who profess
the Divine Name. We offer no rewards except those which God Himself has
promised to those that love Him, and lay down their life for Him; no
promise of peace, save of that which passeth understanding; no home save
that which befits pilgrims and sojourners who seek a City to come; no
honour save the world’s contempt; no life, save that which is hid with
Christ in God.”