第 90 页

similar had ever been said before, and in presence of that Pontiff-King

who could not understand him. His plan of the popes reigning by means of

the poor and lowly now horrified him. His idea of the papacy going to the

people, at last rid of its former masters, seemed to him a suggestion

worthy of a wolf, for if the papacy should go to the people it would only

be to prey upon it as the others had done. And really he, Pierre, must

have been mad when he had imagined that a Roman prelate, a cardinal, a

pope, was capable of admitting a return to the Christian commonwealth, a

fresh florescence of primitive Christianity to pacify the aged nations

whom hatred consumed. Such a conception indeed was beyond the

comprehension of men who for centuries had regarded themselves as masters

of the world, so heedless and disdainful of the lowly and the suffering,

that they had at last become altogether incapable of either love or

charity.*

* The reader should bear in mind that these remarks apply to the

Italian cardinals and prelates, whose vanity and egotism are

remarkable.--Trans.

Leo XIII, however, was still holding forth in his full, unwearying voice.

And the young priest heard him saying: "Why did you write that page on

Lourdes which shows such a thoroughly bad spirit? Lourdes, my son, has

rendered great services to religion. To the persons who have come and

told me of the touching miracles which are witnessed at the Grotto almost

daily, I have often expressed my desire to see those miracles confirmed,

proved by the most rigorous scientific tests. And, indeed, according to

what I have read, I do not think that the most evilly disposed minds can

entertain any further doubt on the matter, for the miracles _are_ proved

scientifically in the most irrefutable manner. Science, my son, must be

God's servant. It can do nothing against Him, it is only by His grace

that it arrives at the truth. All the solutions which people nowadays

pretend to discover and which seemingly destroy dogma will some day be

recognised as false, for God's truth will remain victorious when the

times shall be accomplished. That is a very simple certainty, known even

to little children, and it would suffice for the peace and salvation of

mankind, if mankind would content itself with it. And be convinced, my

son, that faith and reason are not incompatible. Have we not got St.

Thomas who foresaw everything, explained everything, regulated

everything? Your faith has been shaken by the onslaught of the spirit of

examination, you have known trouble and anguish which Heaven has been

pleased to spare our priests in this land of ancient belief, this city of

Rome which the blood of so many martyrs has sanctified. However, we have

no fear of the spirit of examination, study St. Thomas, read him

thoroughly and your faith will return, definitive and triumphant, firmer

than ever."

These remarks caused Pierre as much dismay as if fragments of the

celestial vault were raining on his head. O God of truth, miracles--the

miracles of Lourdes!--proved scientifically, faith in the dogmas

compatible with reason, and the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas sufficient

to instil certainty into the minds of this present generation! How could

one answer that, and indeed why answer it at all?

"Yes, yours is a most culpable and dangerous book," concluded Leo XIII;

"its very title 'New Rome' is mendacious and poisonous, and the work is

the more to be condemned as it offers every fascination of style, every

perversion of generous fancy. Briefly it is such a book that a priest, if

he conceived it in an hour of error, can have no other duty than that of

burning it in public with the very hand which traced the pages of error

and scandal."

All at once Pierre rose up erect. He was about to exclaim: "'Tis true, I

had lost my faith, but I thought I had found it again in the compassion

which the woes of the world set in my heart. You were my last hope, the

awaited saviour. But, behold, that again is a dream, you cannot take the

work of Jesus in hand once more and pacify mankind so as to avert the

frightful fratricidal war which is preparing. You cannot leave your

throne and come along the roads with the poor and the humble to carry out

the supreme work of fraternity. Well, it is all over with you, your

Vatican and your St. Peter's. All is falling before the onslaught of the

rising multitude and growing science. You no longer exist, there are only

ruins and remnants left here."

However, he did not speak those words. He simply bowed and said: "Holy

Father, I make my submission and reprobate my book." And as he thus

replied his voice trembled with disgust, and his open hands made a

gesture of surrender as though he were yielding up his soul. The words he

had chosen were precisely those of the required formula: _Auctor

laudabiliter se subjecit et opus reprobavit_. "The author has laudably

made his submission and reprobated his work." No error could have been

confessed, no hope could have accomplished self-destruction with loftier

despair, more sovereign grandeur. But what frightful irony: that book

which he had sworn never to withdraw, and for whose triumph he had fought

so passionately, and which he himself now denied and suppressed, not

because he deemed it guilty, but because he had just realised that it was

as futile, as chimerical as a lover's desire, a poet's dream. Ah! yes,

since he had been mistaken, since he had merely dreamed, since he had

found there neither the Deity nor the priest that he had desired for the

happiness of mankind, why should he obstinately cling to the illusion of

an awakening which was impossible! 'Twere better to fling his book on the

ground like a dead leaf, better to deny it, better to cut it away like a

dead limb that could serve no purpose whatever!

Somewhat surprised by such a prompt victory Leo XIII raised a slight

exclamation of content. "That is well said, my son, that is well said!

You have spoken the only words that can become a priest."

And in his evident satisfaction, he who left nothing to chance, who

carefully prepared each of his audiences, deciding beforehand what words

he would say, what gestures even he would make, unbent somewhat and

displayed real _bonhomie_. Unable to understand, mistaking the real

motives of this rebellious priest's submission, he tasted positive

delight in having so easily reduced him to silence, the more so as report

had stated the young man to be a terrible revolutionary. And thus his

Holiness felt quite proud of such a conversion. "Moreover, my son," he

said, "I did not expect less of one of your distinguished mind. There can

be no loftier enjoyment than that of owning one's error, doing penance,

and submitting."

He had again taken the glass off the little table beside him and was

stirring the last spoonful of syrup before drinking it. And Pierre was

amazed at again finding him as he had found him at the outset, shrunken,

bereft of sovereign majesty, and simply suggestive of some aged

_bourgeois_ drinking his glass of sugared water before getting into bed.

It was as if after growing and radiating, like a planet ascending to the

zenith, he had again sunk to the level of the soil in all human

mediocrity. Again did Pierre find him puny and fragile, with the slender

neck of a little sick bird, and all those marks of senile ugliness which

rendered him so exacting with regard to his portraits, whether they were

oil paintings or photographs, gold medals, or marble busts, for of one

and the other he would say that the artist must not portray "Papa Pecci"

but Leo XIII, the great Pope, of whom he desired to leave such a lofty

image to posterity. And Pierre, after momentarily ceasing to see them,

was again embarrassed by the handkerchief which lay on the Pope's lap,

and the dirty cassock soiled by snuff. His only feelings now were

affectionate pity for such white old age, deep admiration for the

stubborn power of life which had found a refuge in those dark black eyes,

and respectful deference, such as became a worker, for that large brain

which harboured such vast projects and overflowed with such innumerable

ideas and actions.

The audience was over, and the young man bowed low: "I thank your

Holiness for having deigned to give me such a fatherly reception," he

said.

However, Leo XIII detained him for a moment longer, speaking to him of

France and expressing his sincere desire to see her prosperous, calm, and

strong for the greater advantage of the Church. And Pierre, during that

last moment, had a singular vision, a strange haunting fancy. As he gazed

at the Holy Father's ivory brow and thought of his great age and of his

liability to be carried off by the slightest chill, he involuntarily

recalled the scene instinct with a fierce grandeur which is witnessed

each time a pope dies. He recalled Pius IX, Giovanni Mastai, two hours

after death, his face covered by a white linen cloth, while the

pontifical family surrounded him in dismay; and then Cardinal Pecci, the

_Camerlingo_, approaching the bed, drawing aside the veil and dealing

three taps with his silver hammer on the forehead of the deceased,

repeating at each tap the call, "Giovanni! Giovanni! Giovanni!" And as

the corpse made no response, turning, after an interval of a few seconds,

and saying: "The Pope is dead!" And at the same time, yonder in the Via

Giulia Pierre pictured Cardinal Boccanera, the present _Camerlingo_,

awaiting his turn with his silver hammer, and he imagined Leo XIII,

otherwise Gioachino Pecci, dead, like his predecessor, his face covered

by a white linen cloth and his corpse surrounded by his prelates in that

very room. And he saw the _Camerlingo_ approach, draw the veil aside and

tap the ivory forehead, each time repeating the call: "Gioachino!

Gioachino! Gioachino!" Then, as the corpse did not answer, he waited for

a few seconds and turned and said "The Pope is dead!" Did Leo XIII

remember how he had thrice tapped the forehead of Pius IX, and did he

ever feel on the brow an icy dread of the silver hammer with which he had

armed his own _Camerlingo_, the man whom he knew to be his implacable

adversary, Cardinal Boccanera?

"Go in peace, my son," at last said his Holiness by way of parting

benediction. "Your transgression will be forgiven you since you have

confessed and testify your horror for it."

With distressful spirit, accepting humiliation as well-deserved

chastisement for his chimerical fancies, Pierre retired, stepping

backwards according to the customary ceremonial. He made three deep bows

and crossed the threshold without turning, followed by the black eyes of

Leo XIII, which never left him. Still he saw the Pope stretch his arm

towards the table to take up the newspaper which he had been reading

prior to the audience, for Leo retained a great fancy for newspapers, and

was very inquisitive as to news, though in the isolation in which he

lived he frequently made mistakes respecting the relative importance of

articles. And once more the chamber sank into deep quietude, whilst the

two lamps continued to diffuse a soft and steady light.

In the centre of the _anticamera segreta_ Signor Squadra stood waiting

black and motionless. And on noticing that Pierre in his flurry forgot to

take his hat from the pier table, he himself discreetly fetched it and

handed it to the young priest with a silent bow. Then without any

appearance of haste, he walked ahead to conduct the visitor back to the

Sala Clementina. The endless promenade through the interminable

ante-rooms began once more, and there was still not a soul, not a sound,

not a breath. In each empty room stood the one solitary lamp, burning low

amidst a yet deeper silence than before. The wilderness seemed also to

have grown larger as the night advanced, casting its gloom over the few

articles of furniture scattered under the lofty gilded ceilings, the

thrones, the stools, the pier tables, the crucifixes, and the candelabra

which recurred in each succeeding room. And at last the Sala Clementina

which the Swiss Guards had just quitted was reached again, and Signor

Squadra, who hitherto had not turned his head, thereupon drew aside

without word or gesture, and, saluting Pierre with a last bow, allowed

him to pass on. Then he himself disappeared.

And Pierre descended the two flights of the monumental staircase where

the gas jets in their globes of ground glass glimmered like night lights

amidst a wondrously heavy silence now that the footsteps of the sentries

no longer resounded on the landings. And he crossed the Court of St.

Damasus, empty and lifeless in the pale light of the lamps above the

steps, and descended the Scala Pia, that other great stairway as dim,

deserted, and void of life as all the rest, and at last passed beyond the

bronze door which a porter slowly shut behind him. And with what a

rumble, what a fierce roar did the hard metal close upon all that was

within; all the accumulated darkness and silence; the dead, motionless

centuries perpetuated by tradition; the indestructible idols, the dogmas,

bound round for preservation like mummies; every chain which may weigh on

one or hamper one, the whole apparatus of bondage and sovereign

domination, with whose formidable clang all the dark, deserted halls

re-echoed.

Once more the young man found himself alone on the gloomy expanse of the

Piazza of St. Peter's. Not a single belated pedestrian was to be seen.

There was only the lofty, livid, ghost-like obelisk, emerging between its

four candelabra, from the mosaic pavement of red and serpentine porphyry.

The facade of the Basilica also showed vaguely, pale as a vision, whilst

from it on either side like a pair of giant arms stretched the quadruple

colonnade, a thicket of stone, steeped in obscurity. The dome was but a

huge roundness scarcely discernible against the moonless sky; and only

the jets of the fountains, which could at last be detected rising like