from here, there, and everywhere, inflamed with curiosity, passion, or
faith, bestirring themselves, jostling one another, rising on tip-toe to
see the better! The clamour of a human sea arose, the crowd was as gay
and familiar as if it had found itself in some heavenly theatre where it
was allowable for one to chat aloud and recreate oneself with the
spectacle of religious pomp! At first Pierre was thunderstruck, he who
only knew of nervous, silent kneeling in the depths of dim cathedrals,
who was not accustomed to that religion of light, whose brilliancy
transformed a religious celebration into a morning festivity. Around him,
in the same tribune as himself, were gentlemen in dress-coats and ladies
gowned in black, carrying glasses as in an opera-house. There were German
and English women, and numerous Americans, all more or less charming,
displaying the grace of thoughtless, chirruping birds. In the tribune of
the Roman nobility on the left he recognised Benedetta and Donna
Serafina, and there the simplicity of the regulation attire for ladies
was relieved by large lace veils rivalling one another in richness and
elegance. Then on the right was the tribune of the Knights of Malta,
where the Grand Master stood amidst a group of commanders: while across
the nave rose the diplomatic tribune where Pierre perceived the
ambassadors of all the Catholic nations, resplendent in gala uniforms
covered with gold lace. However, the young priest's eyes were ever
returning to the crowd, the great surging throng in which the three
thousand pilgrims were lost amidst the multitude of other spectators. And
yet as the Basilica was so vast that it could easily contain eighty
thousand people, it did not seem to be more than half full. People came
and went along the aisles and took up favourable positions without
impediment. Some could be seen gesticulating, and calls rang out above
the ceaseless rumble of voices. From the lofty windows of plain white
glass fell broad sheets of sunlight, which set a gory glow upon the faded
damask hangings, and these cast a reflection as of fire upon all the
tumultuous, feverish, impatient faces. The multitude of candles, and the
seven-and-eighty lamps of the Confession paled to such a degree that they
seemed but glimmering night-lights in the blinding radiance; and
everything proclaimed the worldly gala of the imperial Deity of Roman
pomp.
All at once there came a premature shock of delight, a false alert. Cries
burst forth and circulated through the crowd: "Eccolo! eccolo! Here he
comes!" And then there was pushing and jostling, eddying which made the
human sea whirl and surge, all craning their necks, raising themselves to
their full height, darting forward in a frenzied desire to see the Holy
Father and the /cortege/. But only a detachment of Noble Guards marched
by and took up position right and left of the altar. A flattering murmur
accompanied them, their fine impassive bearing with its exaggerated
military stiffness, provoking the admiration of the throng. An American
woman declared that they were superb-looking fellows; and a Roman lady
gave an English friend some particulars about the select corps to which
they belonged. Formerly, said she, young men of the aristocracy had
greatly sought the honour of forming part of it, for the sake of wearing
its rich uniform and caracoling in front of the ladies. But recruiting
was now such a difficult matter that one had to content oneself with
good-looking young men of doubtful or ruined nobility, whose only care
was for the meagre "pay" which just enabled them to live.
When another quarter of an hour of chatting and scrutinising had elapsed,
the papal /cortege/ at last made its appearance, and no sooner was it
seen than applause burst forth as in a theatre--furious applause it was
which rose and rolled along under the vaulted ceilings, suggesting the
acclamations which ring out when some popular, idolised actor makes his
entry on the stage. As in a theatre, too, everything had been very
skilfully contrived so as to produce all possible effect amidst the
magnificent scenery of the Basilica. The /cortege/ was formed in the
wings, that is in the Cappella della Pieta, the first chapel of the right
aisle, and in order to reach it, the Holy Father, coming from his
apartments by the way of the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, had been
stealthily carried behind the hangings of the aisle which served the
purpose of a drop-scene. Awaiting him in all readiness in the Cappella
della Pieta were the cardinals, archbishops, and bishops, the whole
pontifical prelacy, hierarchically classified and grouped. And then, as
at a signal from a ballet master, the /cortege/ made its entry, reaching
the nave and ascending it in triumph from the closed Porta Santa to the
altar of the Confession. On either hand were the rows of spectators whose
applause at the sight of so much magnificence grew louder and louder as
their delirious enthusiasm increased.
It was the /cortege/ of the olden solemnities, the cross and sword, the
Swiss Guard in full uniform, the valets in scarlet simars, the Knights of
the Cape and the Sword in Renascence costumes, the Canons in rochets of
lace, the superiors of the religious communities, the apostolic
prothonotaries, the archbishops, and bishops, all the pontifical prelates
in violet silk, the cardinals, each wearing the /cappa magna/ and draped
in purple, walking solemnly two by two with long intervals between each
pair. Finally, around his Holiness were grouped the officers of the
military household, the chamber prelates, Monsignor the Majordomo,
Monsignor the Grand Chamberlain, and all the other high dignitaries of
the Vatican, with the Roman prince assistant of the throne, the
traditional, symbolical defender of the Church. And on the /sedia
gestatoria/, screened by the /flabelli/ with their lofty triumphal fans
of feathers and carried on high by the bearers in red tunics broidered
with silk, sat the Pope, clad in the sacred vestments which he had
assumed in the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, the amict, the alb, the
stole, and the white chasuble and white mitre enriched with gold, two
gifts of extraordinary sumptuousness that had come from France. And, as
his Holiness drew near, all hands were raised and clapped yet more loudly
amidst the waves of living sunlight which streamed from the lofty
windows.
Then a new and different impression of Leo XIII came to Pierre. The Pope,
as he now beheld him, was no longer the familiar, tired, inquisitive old
man, leaning on the arm of a talkative prelate as he strolled through the
loveliest gardens in the world. He no longer recalled the Holy Father, in
red cape and papal cap, giving a paternal welcome to a pilgrimage which
brought him a fortune. He was here the Sovereign Pontiff, the
all-powerful Master whom Christendom adored. His slim waxen form seemed
to have stiffened within his white vestments, heavy with golden broidery,
as in a reliquary of precious metal; and he retained a rigid, haughty,
hieratic attitude, like that of some idol, gilded, withered for centuries
past by the smoke of sacrifices. Amidst the mournful stiffness of his
face only his eyes lived--eyes like black sparkling diamonds gazing afar,
beyond earth, into the infinite. He gave not a glance to the crowd, he
lowered his eyes neither to right nor to left, but remained soaring in
the heavens, ignoring all that took place at his feet.
And as that seemingly embalmed idol, deaf and blind, in spite of the
brilliancy of his eyes, was carried through the frantic multitude which
it appeared neither to hear nor to see, it assumed fearsome majesty,
disquieting grandeur, all the rigidity of dogma, all the immobility of
tradition exhumed with its /fascioe/ which alone kept it erect. Still
Pierre fancied he could detect that the Pope was ill and weary, suffering
from the attack of fever which Nani had spoken of when glorifying the
courage of that old man of eighty-four, whom strength of soul alone now
kept alive.
The service began. Alighting from the /sedia gestatoria/ before the altar
of the Confession, his Holiness slowly celebrated a low mass, assisted by
four prelates and the pro-prefect of the ceremonies. When the time came
for washing his fingers, Monsignor the Majordomo and Monsignor the Grand
Chamberlain, accompanied by two cardinals, poured the water on his august
hands; and shortly before the elevation of the host all the prelates of
the pontifical court, each holding a lighted taper, came and knelt around
the altar. There was a solemn moment, the forty thousand believers there
assembled shuddered as if they could feel the terrible yet delicious
blast of the invisible sweeping over them when during the elevation the
silver clarions sounded the famous chorus of angels which invariably
makes some women swoon. Almost immediately an aerial chant descended from
the cupola, from a lofty gallery where one hundred and twenty choristers
were concealed, and the enraptured multitude marvelled as though the
angels had indeed responded to the clarion call. The voices descended,
taking their flight under the vaulted ceilings with the airy sweetness of
celestial harps; then in suave harmony they died away, reascended to the
heavens as with a faint flapping of wings. And, after the mass, his
Holiness, still standing at the altar, in person started the /Te Deum/,
which the singers of the Sixtine Chapel and the other choristers took up,
each party chanting a verse alternately. But soon the whole congregation
joined them, forty thousand voices were raised, and a hymn of joy and
glory spread through the vast nave with incomparable splendour of effect.
And then the scene became one of extraordinary magnificence: there was
Bernini's triumphal, flowery, gilded /baldacchino/, surrounded by the
whole pontifical court with the lighted tapers showing like starry
constellations, there was the Sovereign Pontiff in the centre, radiant
like a planet in his gold-broidered chasuble, there were the benches
crowded with cardinals in purple and archbishops and bishops in violet
silk, there were the tribunes glittering with official finery, the gold
lace of the diplomatists, the variegated uniforms of foreign officers,
and then there was the throng flowing and eddying on all sides, rolling
billows after billows of heads from the most distant depths of the
Basilica. And the hugeness of the temple increased one's amazement; and
even the glorious hymn which the multitude repeated became colossal,
ascended like a tempest blast amidst the great marble tombs, the
superhuman statues and gigantic pillars, till it reached the vast vaulted
heavens of stone, and penetrated into the firmament of the cupola where
the Infinite seemed to open resplendent with the gold-work of the
mosaics.
A long murmur of voices followed the /Te Deum/, whilst Leo XIII, after
donning the tiara in lieu of the mitre, and exchanging the chasuble for
the pontifical cope, went to occupy his throne on the platform at the
entry of the left transept. He thence dominated the whole assembly,
through which a quiver sped when after the prayers of the ritual, he once
more rose erect. Beneath the symbolic, triple crown, in the golden
sheathing of his cope, he seemed to have grown taller. Amidst sudden and
profound silence, which only feverish heart-beats interrupted, he raised
his arm with a very noble gesture and pronounced the papal benediction in
a slow, loud, full voice, which seemed, as it were, the very voice of the
Deity, so greatly did its power astonish one, coming from such waxen
lips, from such a bloodless, lifeless frame. And the effect was
prodigious: as soon as the /cortege/ reformed to return whence it had
come, applause again burst forth, a frenzy of enthusiasm which the
clapping of hands could no longer content. Acclamations resounded and
gradually gained upon the whole multitude. They began among a group of
ardent partisans stationed near the statue of St. Peter: /"Evviva il
Papa-Re! evviva il Papa-Re/! Long live the Pope-King!" as the /cortege/
went by the shout rushed along like leaping fire, inflaming heart after
heart, and at last springing from every mouth in a thunderous protest
against the theft of the states of the Church. All the faith, all the
love of those believers, overexcited by the regal spectacle they had just
beheld, returned once more to the dream, to the rageful desire that the
Pope should be both King and Pontiff, master of men's bodies as he was of
their souls--in one word, the absolute sovereign of the earth. Therein
lay the only truth, the only happiness, the only salvation! Let all be
given to him, both mankind and the world! "/Evviva il Papa-Re! evviva il
Papa-Re/! Long live the Pope-King!"
Ah! that cry, that cry of war which had caused so many errors and so much
bloodshed, that cry of self-abandonment and blindness which, realised,
would have brought back the old ages of suffering, it shocked Pierre, and
impelled him in all haste to quit the tribune where he was in order that
he might escape the contagion of idolatry. And while the /cortege/ still
went its way and the deafening clamour of the crowd continued, he for a
moment followed the left aisle amidst the general scramble. This,
however, made him despair of reaching the street, and anxious to escape
the crush of the general departure, it occurred to him to profit by a
door which he saw open and which led him into a vestibule, whence
ascended the steps conducting to the dome. A sacristan standing in the
doorway, both bewildered and delighted at the demonstration, looked at
him for a moment, hesitating whether he should stop him or not. However,
the sight of the young priest's cassock combined with his own emotion
rendered the man tolerant. Pierre was allowed to pass, and at once began
to climb the staircase as rapidly as he could, in order that he might
flee farther and farther away, ascend higher and yet higher into peace
and silence.
And the silence suddenly became profound, the walls stifled the cry of
the multitude. The staircase was easy and light, with broad paved steps
turning within a sort of tower. When Pierre came out upon the roofs of
nave and aisles, he was delighted to find himself in the bright sunlight
and the pure keen air which blew there as in the open country. And it was
with astonishment that he gazed upon the huge expanse of lead, zinc, and
stone-work, a perfect aerial city living a life of its own under the blue
sky. He saw cupolas, spires, terraces, even houses and gardens, houses
bright with flowers, the residences of the workmen who live atop of the
Basilica, which is ever and ever requiring repair. A little population
here bestirs itself, labours, loves, eats, and sleeps. However, Pierre
desired to approach the balustrade so as to get a near view of the
colossal statues of the Saviour and the Apostles which surmount the
facade on the side of the piazza. These giants, some nineteen feet in
height, are constantly being mended; their arms, legs, and heads, into
which the atmosphere is ever eating, nowadays only hold together by the
help of cement, bars, and hooks. And having examined them, Pierre was
leaning forward to glance at the Vatican's jumble of ruddy roofs, when it
seemed to him that the shout from which he had fled was rising from the
piazza, and thereupon, in all haste, he resumed his ascent within the
pillar conducting to the dome. There was first a staircase, and then came
some narrow, oblique passages, inclines intersected by a few steps,
between the inner and outer walls of the cupola. Yielding to curiosity,
Pierre pushed a door open, and suddenly found himself inside the Basilica
again, at nearly 200 feet from the ground. A narrow gallery there ran
round the dome just above the frieze, on which, in letters five feet
high, appeared the famous inscription: /Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram
oedificabo ecclesiam meam et tibi dabo claves regni coelorum.* And then,
as Pierre leant over to gaze into the fearful cavity beneath him and the
wide openings of nave, and aisles, and transepts, the cry, the delirious
cry of the multitude, yet clamorously swarming below, struck him full in
the face. He fled once more; but, higher up, yet a second time he pushed
another door open and found another gallery, one perched above the
windows, just where the splendid mosaics begin, and whence the crowd
seemed to him lost in the depths of a dizzy abyss, altar and
/baldacchino/ alike looking no larger than toys. And yet the cry of
idolatry and warfare arose again, and smote him like the buffet of a
tempest which gathers increase of strength the farther it rushes. So to
escape it he had to climb higher still, even to the outer gallery which
encircles the lantern, hovering in the very heavens.
* Thou art Peter (Petrus) and on that rock (Petram) will I build
my church, and to thee will I give the keys of the Kingdom of
Heaven.
How delightful was the relief which that bath of air and sunlight at
first brought him! Above him now there only remained the ball of gilt
copper into which emperors and queens have ascended, as is testified by
the pompous inscriptions in the passages; a hollow ball it is, where the
voice crashes like thunder, where all the sounds of space reverberate. As
he emerged on the side of the apse, his eyes at first plunged into the
papal gardens, whose clumps of trees seemed mere bushes almost level with
the soil; and he could retrace his recent stroll among them, the broad
/parterre/ looking like a faded Smyrna rug, the large wood showing the
deep glaucous greenery of a stagnant pool. Then there were the kitchen
garden and the vineyard easily identified and tended with care. The
fountains, the observatory, the casino, where the Pope spent the hot days
of summer, showed merely like little white spots in those undulating
grounds, walled in like any other estate, but with the fearsome rampart
of the fourth Leo, which yet retained its fortress-like aspect. However,
Pierre took his way round the narrow gallery and abruptly found himself
in front of Rome, a sudden and immense expanse, with the distant sea on
the west, the uninterrupted mountain chains on the east and the south,
the Roman Campagna stretching to the horizon like a bare and greenish
desert, while the city, the Eternal City, was spread out at his feet.
Never before had space impressed him so majestically. Rome was there, as
a bird might see it, within the glance, as distinct as some geographical
plan executed in relief. To think of it, such a past, such a history, so
much grandeur, and Rome so dwarfed and contracted by distance! Houses as
lilliputian and as pretty as toys; and the whole a mere mouldy speck upon
the earth's face! What impassioned Pierre was that he could at a glance
understand the divisions of Rome: the antique city yonder with the
Capitol, the Forum, and the Palatine; the papal city in that Borgo which
he overlooked, with St. Peter's and the Vatican gazing across the city of
the middle ages--which was huddled together in the right angle described
by the yellow Tiber--towards the modern city, the Quirinal of the Italian
monarchy. And particularly did he remark the chalky girdle with which the
new districts encompassed the ancient, central, sun-tanned quarters, thus
symbolising an effort at rejuvenescence, the old heart but slowly mended,
whereas the outlying limbs were renewed as if by miracle.
In that ardent noontide glow, however, Pierre no longer beheld the pure
ethereal Rome which had met his eyes on the morning of his arrival in the
delightfully soft radiance of the rising sun. That smiling, unobtrusive
city, half veiled by golden mist, immersed as it were in some dream of
childhood, now appeared to him flooded with a crude light, motionless,
hard of outline and silent like death. The distance was as if devoured by
too keen a flame, steeped in a luminous dust in which it crumbled. And
against that blurred background the whole city showed with violent
distinctness in great patches of light and shade, their tracery harshly
conspicuous. One might have fancied oneself above some very ancient,
abandoned stone quarry, which a few clumps of trees spotted with dark
green. Of the ancient city one could see the sunburnt tower of the
Capitol, the black cypresses of the Palatine, and the ruins of the palace
of Septimius Severus, suggesting the white osseous carcase of some fossil
monster, left there by a flood. In front, was enthroned the modern city
with the long, renovated buildings of the Quirinal, whose yellow walls
stood forth with wondrous crudity amidst the vigorous crests of the
garden trees. And to right and left on the Viminal, beyond the palace,
the new districts appeared like a city of chalk and plaster mottled by
innumerable windows as with a thousand touches of black ink. Then here
and there were the Pincio showing like a stagnant mere, the Villa Medici
uprearing its campanili, the castle of Sant' Angelo brown like rust, the
spire of Santa Maria Maggiore aglow like a burning taper, the three
churches of the Aventine drowsy amidst verdure, the Palazzo Farnese with
its summer-baked tiles showing like old gold, the domes of the Gesu, of
Sant' Andrea della Valle, of San Giovanni dei Fiorentini, and yet other
domes and other domes, all in fusion, incandescent in the brazier of the
heavens. And Pierre again felt a heart-pang in presence of that harsh,
stern Rome, so different from the Rome of his dream, the Rome of
rejuvenescence and hope, which he had fancied he had found on his first
morning, but which had now faded away to give place to the immutable city
of pride and domination, stubborn under the sun even unto death.
And there on high, all alone with his thoughts, Pierre suddenly
understood. It was as if a dart of flaming light fell on him in that
free, unbounded expanse where he hovered. Had it come from the ceremony
which he had just beheld, from the frantic cry of servitude still ringing
in his ears? Had it come from the spectacle of that city beneath him,
that city which suggested an embalmed queen still reigning amidst the
dust of her tomb? He knew not; but doubtless both had acted as factors,
and at all events the light which fell upon his mind was complete: he
felt that Catholicism could not exist without the temporal power, that it
must fatally disappear whenever it should no longer be king over this
earth. A first reason of this lay in heredity, in the forces of history,
the long line of the heirs of the Caesars, the popes, the great pontiffs,
in whose veins the blood of Augustus, demanding the empire of the world,
had never ceased to flow. Though they might reside in the Vatican they
had come from the imperial abodes on the Palatine, from the palace of
Septimius Severus, and throughout the centuries their policy had ever
pursued the dream of Roman mastery, of all the nations vanquished,
submissive, and obedient to Rome. If its sovereignty were not universal,
extending alike over bodies and over souls, Catholicism would lose its
/raison d'etre/; for the Church cannot recognise any empire or kingdom
otherwise than politically--the emperors and the kings being purely and
simply so many temporary delegates placed in charge of the nations
pending the time when they shall be called upon to relinquish their
trust. All the nations, all humanity, and the whole world belong to the
Church to whom they have been given by God. And if real and effective
possession is not hers to-day, this is only because she yields to force,
compelled to face accomplished facts, but with the formal reserve that
she is in presence of guilty usurpation, that her possessions are
unjustly withheld from her, and that she awaits the realisation of the
promises of the Christ, who, when the time shall be accomplished, will
for ever restore to her both the earth and mankind. Such is the real
future city which time is to bring: Catholic Rome, sovereign of the world
once more. And Rome the city forms a substantial part of the dream, Rome
whose eternity has been predicted, Rome whose soil has imparted to
Catholicism the inextinguishable thirst of absolute power. And thus the
destiny of the papacy is linked to that of Rome, to such a point indeed
that a pope elsewhere than at Rome would no longer be a Catholic pope.
The thought of all this frightened Pierre; a great shudder passed through
him as he leant on the light iron balustrade, gazing down into the abyss
where the stern mournful city was even now crumbling away under the
fierce sun.