Part 12

The book was put on the Index, and the author had to do penance. Needless to say, this excess of zeal on the part of the Jesuit Fathers did much more harm than could ever have been done by poor Monsignor Lefrène. Few people, indeed, took the trouble to read the condemned book; but everyone talked about it, and the idea became prevalent that Lefrène held the same views as those for which the Orthodox Church had excommunicated Tolstoi, which probability proved that heresies had stolen into the fold of Rome. Believers spoke of Lefrène with horror, and demanded that he should be expelled from the priesthood. Atheists, on the contrary, rubbed their hands in triumph. And all this storm in a teacup had been raised by nothing more serious than Monsignor Lefrène’s sense of humour. Minds such as his, indeed, are comparatively rare, and are of true and deep value to society. A witty, well-aimed pleasantry may often point out to us very clearly the absurdity or grotesqueness of some pet idea or enthusiasm, and by so doing may bring us sharply back to reason. Thousands of people owe their abandonment of some baneful caprice to a chance word of ridicule; yet it is a strange fact that a satirical mind always renders its owner unpopular. The public may perhaps sometimes forgive a satirical writer of short stories, but a satirical priest—never! People will not understand that when Nature endows her children with talent, she cannot foresee what uniform they will wear later on.

Monsignor Lefrène’s sparkling epigrams were repeated all over Rome, and cost him, according to rumour, the Cardinal’s hat. Not that the witty Monsignor was very anxious for this honour. Truly talented people always value God’s gift to them above all earthly honours, and a successful epigram gives as much personal satisfaction to a wit, as a successful novel to a writer. Both, indeed, are on the same level. It is, however, undoubted that popular malice, animosity, and failure to understand or recognize their genius, can deeply wound a talented nature; and it is strange that these carping tongues often distinguish themselves, in their own immediate circles, by delicacy and charity.

Monsignor Lefrène occupied the second floor of one of Rome’s most splendid palaces. The magnificent antique ceilings and walls, the beautiful furniture, the wealth of sunlight that filled this luxurious abode, seemed more suited to the tastes of a scientist philosopher than to those of a priest. In a line with the reception-rooms was a covered terrace, full of tropical plants, among which strayed a number of tame pigeons. Irene loved pigeons, and stepped out on the terrace to observe them more closely. It was here that Monsignor Lefrène found her, and greeted her with his always humorous smile, and a quick glance from his keen, intelligent eyes.

“I am admiring your birds, Monsignor,” said Irene as they shook hands.

“Are you?” he answered. “But have you seen my Tiber? Look how beautiful it is through this window.” And the Monsignor pointed to the yellow muddy waters that always filled Irene with disgust, when comparing it with the clear, blue rivers of Russia.

The conversation turned to the Orthodoxy, and Lefrène showed himself to be like most Catholic priests, closely acquainted with Russian Church matters. In addition, he had many friends among the higher Russian clergy. Irene purposely began to speak of the suggested Orthodox Church Council, which she had discussed also with Cardinal R⸺. Monsignor looked displeased.

“But why do you want a council?” he asked.

“Why?” exclaimed Irene. “One of our great writers has said that the Orthodox Church has been paralyzed since the days of Peter the Great. With the election of a patriarch, she may perhaps recover, and pronounce some new word.”

Lefrène shook his head.

“Oh! La nouvelle vérité ne sortira jamais de l’église,” he remarked with conviction.

Irene was amazed.

“I don’t understand,” she stammered questioningly.

Monsignor smiled. “Comment voulez vous qu’un prêtre émette une idée nouvelle,” he said, “quand la coupole de Saint Pierre pèse sur des épaules?”

“Yes, but we Russians have no ‘Saint Peter’s,’” observed Irene quietly.

“Eh bien, vous avez la coupole de Moscou! Dans chaque religion, toujours une coupole quelconque pesera sur le prêtre et lui fermera la bouche”—and a deep sadness trembled in poor Lefrène’s voice.

“But even if so,” said Irene, “the council might improve the education of our clergy, and teach them to cultivate warmer relations with their flocks.” And in her turn she could not restrain the note of personal sorrow and regret that echoed in her words.

“Oh, I have heard all those complaints before, especially from your late philosopher, Vladimir Solovyof,” replied Monsignor. “He once related me a very characteristic legend in this connection,” and, with his subtle smile, Lefrène repeated the legend of Saint Nicholas, supposed to be of Russian origin.

Saint Nicholas, accompanied by the Reverend Cassian, once came down from heaven, on a visit to earth. On the great highway they met a poor peasant, the wheels of whose cart had become embedded in the mud of the roadside, and he was vainly exerting himself almost beyond his strength to extricate them.

“Let us help him,” said the charitable Saint Nicholas.

“No, that is impossible,” replied the Reverend Cassian scornfully. “We should soil our white robes.”

But Saint Nicholas paid no attention to him, and set to work to help the peasant. Both horse and cart were soon standing safely in the dry roadway, but several splashes of mud had stained the snowy whiteness of the Saint’s raiment.

When God heard of this occurrence, He ordered that from thenceforward the memory of Saint Nicholas was to be honoured twice a year, but that of the Rev. Cassian only once in four years. (The festival of Saint Cassian falls on the 29th of February!)

“Vladimir Solovyof,” added Monsignor Lefrène, “told me this legend in that half-mocking tone which is nearly always assumed by Frenchmen when speaking of _le bon Dieu_, but which, in Russian, is quite inadmissible.” He explained the legend as follows: Saint Nicholas represents the Catholic Church, always warmly attached and interested in its followers and never afraid of touching dirt when there is a chance of saving a sinner. Cassian, on the other hand, is the Orthodox Church, cold and haughty, indifferent to her people, and only anxious to retain her outer immaculacy.

Irene was greatly drawn to Monsignor Lefrène and with her usual impulsiveness, feeling a profound confidence in him, she made him a confession of her own personal credo, that same credo that Père Etienne had once waved away with a smile. Lefrène listened with his customary half-satirical smile, and answered quietly:

“Your faith has nothing whatever in common with Christianity. If anything it is Biblical, of the Old Testament. We Christians abandoned all such ideas nineteen centuries ago.”

Irene blushed. “It is as if they had talked it over between them,” she thought. “Père Etienne said my faith suited the Samoyedes, and this man says it is of the Old Testament.”

“True Christians,” explained Lefrène, noticing Irene’s perplexity, “never expect rewards or justice in this world, because they realize that such results are only possible beyond the grave. To pagans and Old Testament Jews, the idea of a future life had not presented itself—hence, in the book of Job, for instance, Job, having patiently borne all his sufferings, expects God, in justice, to cure him of his leprosy, give him new wealth, new children, a new wife. No, for that matter, he kept his old, former wife, and this very circumstance makes me think that Job was not nearly as happy as the Bible would have us believe.”

The same evening, telling Gzhatski about her visit to Lefrène, Irene mentioned the shade of displeasure that had crossed the face of the Monsignor, and similarly, a few days previously, that of Cardinal R⸺, at the mention of the suggested Orthodox Council.

“I am not at all surprised,” replied Gzhatski. “The Catholics know very well that a body without a head must, sooner or latter, decay and fall to pieces. They foresee the moment when Russia, to save her religion, will have to choose a head for her Church, and they hope to be able, at that moment, to persuade her to accept the Pope as this head. The election of a Patriarch would be a great blow to their designs, and would indefinitely postpone all idea of a union between the two churches. I say _postpone_ because all Catholics are completely convinced that ultimately this union must come to pass.”

“That is exactly what I cannot understand,” exclaimed Irene. “The longer I live in Rome, the more I come to the conclusion that the two churches have really never been separated. No one but theologians is interested in dogmas. Ordinary mortals, orthodox and Catholic alike, believe in the same legends and superstitions, the same saints and martyrs, the same prayers, the same gospel, the same services. It is even astonishing that two churches, having so long ago severed all connection with each other, should have remained so astonishingly similar. Russian pilgrims, who go to Bari to pray at the shrine of Saint Nicholas, the worker of miracles, proceed from there to the shrines of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Rome, where they feel perfectly at home. What is the use of worrying about the re-union of two churches that actually have never been disunited at all?”

“You forget the political standpoint,” said Gzhatski. “Russia is growing daily and hourly, and with each year her might increases. Some day, in the not too far-distant future, her support may be of enormous importance to the Pope. What with the spread of Atheism and Freemasonry, there is nothing to ensure that the Vatican will not one fine day suddenly be turned into a National museum, and some out-of-the-way monastery in the Apennines be offered to the Pope as a residence! The Catholic nations of Europe would, in such a case, probably limit themselves, as they did on the occasion of the taking of Rome, to the sending of deputations and expressions of sympathy. It is at that moment that the Pope, like King Lear, will turn away from his proud elder daughters Regan and Goneril, on whom he has lavished so much love and care, and will remember the far-away Cordelia, whom, though she has received nothing from him, he has never ceased to regard as his daughter. There is no doubt that the Vatican has some hopes in connection with the Northern Cordelia, and—who knows?—perhaps even these hopes are not quite without foundation. In any case, a persecuted and friendless Pope would certainly appeal far more strongly to the sympathies of the Russian people than the present magnificent and triumphant Pontiff!”

XVII

The Catholic and the Orthodox Easter fell that year on the same date. It was already Passion Week, and for some days Irene saw nothing of Gzhatski. He was preparing for Easter Communion, and went every day to the Russian Church. Irene, on her side, was anxious not to miss even the least of the Catholic services and ceremonies. A spell of cold, windy weather had broken in upon the sunny springtime, and, perhaps on this account, perhaps also through the fatigue of constant long standing in church (there are no chairs in the great Roman cathedrals), Irene’s nerves were in an unbearable state of tension and restlessness. With a great effort, she turned her steps, on the Thursday evening, towards St. Peter’s, where the annual ceremony of the washing of the altar was to take place.

The immense church was filled from end to end with a dense, closely-packed crowd, the service being, however, audible only to the comparatively few who stood near the altar. For that matter, there really was not any service at all. A Cardinal sat on the central throne, and grouped around him on wooden seats and stools were the numerous grades and members of the Vatican State Clergy. They were singing in low, dull, monotonous tones, and their endless, wail-like, doleful chant produced a most disagreeable impression on the nerves. The tired, enervated crowd pressed against the wooden barriers that enclosed a free passage for the procession. Everyone felt hot and tired and hungry, and faint from the close, stuffy atmosphere. Cross Englishwomen were quarrelling with neighbouring Italian women, and pushing them unceremoniously. In perfectly audible tones they repeatedly remarked the impoliteness of people in Rome, especially at St. Peter’s on that particular occasion. Scarcely anybody was praying, the majority of those present having come simply to witness an interesting spectacle. Pretty young American girls were there with their sweethearts, and were undisguisedly amusing themselves, chattering and laughing and coquetting. At last, after three hours of responses and lamentations and misereres, the long-awaited procession appeared. In front came young attendants in lace aprons, and behind them fat old priests, looking like old women, with their smooth, round faces, their ample mauve robes, and their mauve-lined, grey, squirrel capes. Each one carried in his hand a rod with a sponge attached to it. Last of all, also carrying an enormous sponge, came a Cardinal in a red robe with a long train carried by an attendant.

The procession mounted the altar steps, and, all coverings and ornaments having been previously removed, began to wash the altar. A scent of wine spread through the church. Having concluded this ceremony, the procession passed slowly and solemnly round the altar to the accompaniment of a shower of rattles, sounded to denote the dismay and perturbation of all Nature—the thunder and earthquake that followed Christ’s death.

Irene followed everything with great attention. A strange, new feeling of contempt seemed to tremble in her soul. At home, in her own country, she had always come away from the Passion Week services deeply touched, and in great emotion. And now, all these unaccustomed ceremonies and costumes and rites, the strange language, the extraordinary pagan ritual, suddenly shocked her. Maybe she was overtired from three hours’ standing in the crowd, and, therefore, more than usually critical—but true it is that she contemplated almost with loathing the whole scene before her, even the marble columns and the colossal statues of the great Roman Cathedral.

“And they call this Christianity!” she thought bitterly. “What an irony! This is sheer paganism, and these are the same ancient Romans, still worshipping the same old gods as before. They have never understood Christ’s teaching, and they have buried it under marble shrines and pagan ceremonies.

“In your place I would go a little further still,” exclaimed Irene’s inner soul with malicious sarcasm. “I would destroy every New Testament in the world, except one—and that one I would put in a golden, jewel-studded box, and would bury it deep in the earth, forbidding its disinterment on pain of death. Over it, I would build a splendid golden shrine, and in this shrine I would celebrate night and day magnificent services with gorgeous processions. That would be entirely in accordance with the spirit of your Christianity.

“But you have not the temerity to go so far. You vaguely feel that some day the world will arise in fury against you, will destroy your temples, tear into shreds your splendid robes, and leave, alone and triumphant, only the Gospel, the one Christian teaching humanity needs. And then, there will come together ‘two or three in His Name,’ to read His Book and to pray—and ‘He will be among them.’”

Thus, angrily, yet dreaming, Irene’s thoughts flew. Just in front of her stood an Italian middle-class couple. The young husband held a three-year-old girl by the hand while the pretty mother pressed to her heart a white bundle, evidently a sleeping infant. The noise of the rattles must have disturbed its slumbers, for suddenly the bundle stirred, a tiny hand stretched itself forth in search of the mother’s breast, and a low wail made itself heard. The mother immediately sat down at the foot of a marble column, and began to feed the child. For some reason, the idea occurred to Irene that in all that pagan crowd in a pagan temple the only representatives of Christianity were that simple mother and child.

“There is the great miracle!” she thought rapturously. “New life, coming no one knows from where! Why are you all quarrelling about whether certain miracles were or were not performed nineteen centuries ago in Palestine? Why must you be certain of those particular miracles, before you can believe in God? To-day, at this very moment, you are surrounded by miracles. Birth, death, sunrise, springtime, winter—are not all these miracles? You have forgotten them because you see them every day. In your silly self-conceit, you assure yourselves that all this is perfectly natural, and that science has long ago explained it all—but you forget that your science has only _noted_ the existence of these miracles, and that their secret belongs as much as ever to the Almighty Ruler of the Universe in whom you find it so difficult to believe.”

Irene left the Cathedral in great moral perturbation. So great was her excitement that she forgot to take a cab, and walked all the long way home, in the face of a cutting east wind that she did not even notice. Large tears ran down her face, she talked to herself, gesticulated, and drew the attention of all passers-by. The pagan soul that had passed Christianity by was sobbing and storming within her. For one moment, under the influence of the very ceremonies she was execrating, she had understood how priceless was the treasure she had lost. Life might have been beautiful and full of harmony, whereas, on the path she had chosen, there was nothing but constant, needless, helpless suffering. Someone should have taught her Christianity! Her soul had been confided to someone’s care, and that someone had not fulfilled his sacred duty!

And Irene, in her despair, cursed all lazy and idle slaves, for a voice in her soul told her that her fate was sealed, and that it was too late to try and change it.

XVIII

The following morning Irene awoke feeling depressed and miserable. She was afraid to remain alone with her own thoughts, and wrote to Gzhatski, asking him to come and take her for a drive on the Appian Way. It was Good Friday, and Gzhatski was just on the point of leaving his hotel to go to the Russian Church, when Irene’s letter was handed to him. He guessed from the tone of her words that something unusual was the matter with his friend, and, without hesitating, he immediately drove off to fetch her. Asking no questions, and pretending not to notice her tear-stained eyes and trembling lips, he sat quietly beside her, as the cab rolled past the Colosseum and the Baths of Caracalla, to the Porta San Sebastiano. It was a grey, dull morning. The yellow, thick, Roman dust had been laid by the recent rain, the wind had fallen, and not a leaf stirred on the trees. On either side of the Via Appia Antica rose high stone walls, obstructing the view over the Campagna. At last, however, they passed the tomb of Cecilia Metella, and drove out into the open country. Before them stretched the narrow ancient road, in places still paved with flat stones, in the ancient fashion. This road, straight as an arrow, stretches all the way to Albano, making no zig-zags even when climbing up-hill. It is a road that could only have been made by children, or by ancient Romans! On either side of the way stand monuments of the most varied forms, round, cone-shaped, pyramidal, and other varieties, difficult to name or describe. Some of them still boast bas-reliefs and inscriptions, and here and there fallen statues, armless or headless, peep out between the bushes. Occasionally, too, some stray monument is surrounded by a frame of tall cypresses and Roman pines, but in general, there is not much greenery, except the tall, fresh grass, full of mauve and yellow field-flowers, and scarlet poppies. In the far distance are the blue Albanian hills, and on the left the graceful ruins of the Aqueducts stand out in charming relief against the sky.

Irene gazed in silence at the lovely picture. It was long since she had ventured beyond the stone walls of the city, and now, at sight of Nature in this fresh spring dress, a new, strange, unconquerable desire for happiness suddenly took possession of her soul.

“It is inhuman to be always miserable and in tears, and to eternally curse one’s own existence,” she thought; “everyone has a right to at least occasional gleams of happiness. Who has dared to condemn me to constant despair? I claim my share of joy! I claim it! I demand it! I desire it!”

Irene repeated the words passionately to herself, and it seemed to her that Fate must send her happiness, if only because she desired it so ardently.

“I cannot wait any longer!” she seemed to be inwardly exclaiming to somebody. “I must have happiness immediately—to-day! Yes, to-day, to-day—I do not believe in to-morrow!”

Gzhatski, too, was silent, and apparently lost in his own thoughts, as he sat back in the carriage, smiling softly to himself.

“How lovely!” he suddenly exclaimed, turning to Irene. “Don’t you think the Campagna reminds one of the country in Russia? The same limitless space, the same meadows, even the same modest spring, not at all southern and luxurious. I hardly think Nature at my place in the S⸺ province can be much more than a month behind this.”

Presently they alighted, and climbed up a little grassy slope to admire the view, the loveliness of which was enhanced by the wonderful silence in which all Nature seemed wrapt. No sound was heard, except the occasional shy note of a bird, and the low baa-ing of distant sheep.

On the way back they stopped to have tea at the Castello dei Cesari, an original and charming little restaurant, arranged in an ancient tower. They sat near the window of the large hall, with its wooden ceiling, brick floor, antique wooden chandeliers, and enormous antique vases full of flowers.

The magnificent view embraced the Palatine Hill, with its gigantic ruins, and towards evening the setting sun threw the magic of its golden glory alike over the ruins and the lilacs and fruit-trees that bloomed among them.

Was it the springtime, or a likeness between the Campagna and his home that had touched Gzhatski? He suddenly began to speak of his mother, of that holy of holies in his soul that he always kept so jealously to himself. Leaning his elbows on the table, he spoke to Irene of his childhood, his home, his most cherished recollections, and his life with the beloved, sainted guardian of his early days.

“How she loved me! How proud she was of me! With what tenderness she looked at me! She brought me up with nothing but love. When governesses or tutors made some complaint about me, she called me to her, repeated their words, and said: ‘I cannot believe it possible that you should have done such a thing. There must be some misunderstanding. Explain it to me.’ And I was afraid to be naughty, because it was awful to give her pain and to meet her sad, reproachful glance. I was still quite little, but I already realized that life had not brought her much happiness. Besides, the circumstances were such that I naturally reasoned and reflected much more than most children of my age. My father used to come once or twice a year; my mother was always bedridden. The whole household was accustomed to apply to me for orders, and I very early assumed the responsibilities of the master of the house. I remember even that when I was barely twelve, I began to take up a protecting attitude towards my mother! She was more amused than displeased, and told me that she greatly valued such a strong and energetic protector.”