Part 4

And now Irene was gazing with rapture at the frescoed walls of the immense Sala Clementina, into which, little by little, the extraordinarily mixed assemblage, whose like one can hardly meet anywhere, was making its way. There were foreigners shivering in furs; aristocratic Roman ladies in elegant black dresses, long white gloves, and family pearls; prelates; cardinals; nuns in white starched headdresses; Capucins in sandals, and with ropes round their waists; little girls in white dresses and lace veils, with curls framing their flushed, excited faces; officers of the papal guard; dominicans in white cloth cassocks; attachés of the various foreign embassies in gold embroidered uniforms—all this formed one heterogeneous, palpitating mass of humanity. The variety of the crowd pleased and interested Irene. It struck her that all this was just as it should be in the Palace of the Roman Pontiff, the only sovereign who acknowledged neither rank nor position nor class distinctions, and who did not surround himself with a Chinese wall, guarded by a handful of privileged people, in no way more deserving than their fellows. “It is in most countries these privileged classes,” thought Irene, “who by energetically pushing to a safe distance from the precincts of the throne all who really work for the good of their country, always manage artificially to create enemies for their King.” The Pope believed in a very different policy. He was accessible to everybody, without distinction of nationality, faith, or social position, and he was ready to receive and to bless everyone alike. Perhaps, indeed, it may be owing to this wise policy that no attempt has ever been made on his life, in spite of the fact that the Vatican employs neither spies nor secret guards. Such a Court, thought Irene, should have existed under Constantine the Great or Louis IX.

The ceremony of presenting consecrated candles to the Pope (_dei ceri benedetti_) was to take place in the neighbouring Sala del Trono. At one end of this lofty, narrow, frescoed hall stood, under a baldaquin, the golden throne of the Pope; at the other end, a great crucifix supported by an angel. On either side of the central passage, kept clear by the Swiss guards, were long benches, on which were already seated various pilgrims, all trying to get as near as possible to the throne. The best places had already long been taken by clergy of all nationalities, with enormous opera-glasses and firm intentions to miss not the smallest detail of the interesting spectacle. Subdued excitement reigned supreme in the half-darkened hall, with its drawn red blinds and its sparse, electric lights. There was a hushed murmur of low-toned conversation—everyone spoke in a whisper, except, of course, the Americans, who exchanged silly little remarks and impressions in unceremonious, strident tones. A Frenchman, with a small pointed beard was, in a loud voice, relating to someone something about an inn in Naples, where one could get excellent wine and macaroni. With the impudence of a dull-minded Atheist, he smacked his lips over various details, keenly enjoying the paradox contained in the mere fact of discussing such things at the Vatican.

Here and there in the crowd, however, could also be seen the rapturous faces of youthful priests and young girls. Full of religious exaltation, trembling with emotion, they kept their shining eyes fixed on the door before which stood the papal guards.

At last there was a wave of movement. The crowd rose, made as though it would fall on its knees, but thought better of the intention, and remained standing. Surrounded by his Court, His Holiness, in white raiment and a little white cap, passed to the throne, and, throwing a quick glance over the assemblage, took his place.

Along the central passage, between the benches, a procession of priests advanced, two and two, holding in their hands long painted tapers, covered with funny little fringed extinguishers. They approached the throne, handed the tapers to attendants, fell on their knees, and kissed the Pope’s ring. On the beautiful face of the Pontiff shone a radiant smile. He said a few words to each one, sometimes whispered in their ears, and often laughed. This was not the face of a mighty sovereign, but only that of a good, kind old man, who had long ago learnt that all sorrows, all dreams, all hopes, are soon over, and that life is short, and does not contain anything specially good or attractive. He was deeply sorry for all those expectant pilgrims, exciting themselves about nothing at all, awaiting Heaven knows what, and needlessly tiring themselves out; and all he could do was to help them with a kind word, a warm glance, and with the love that illumined his beautiful features. It seemed to Irene that, for the first time in centuries, a truly Christian pastor reigned in Rome, and one who in spirit resembled the first Christian apostles, the builders of the Church. What a striking contrast between this Pope and his surrounding Court! They, too, were all smiling at the pilgrims; but what hypocrisy, what falseness and flattery, breathed in those smiles! Their crafty faces were cold and indifferent. For them, this ceremony was only one of the countless comedies in which they had constantly to play parts. Two of these papal courtiers, both still young and handsome, were obviously posing before the aristocratic Roman ladies, among whom they probably had admiring friends.

The ceremony lasted a long time. The tapers, in the hands of the priests, moved along in endless procession. Everyone was tired and hot, all faces were flushed. The courtiers around the throne left off smiling, and made no attempt to hide their fatigue. Only the Pope alone smiled as warmly and caressingly as before upon each man who knelt before him. For him, this was no ceremony, this was a human service, which he rendered joyfully.

At last, the final tapers were presented. His Holiness rose, blessed the bowing crowd, and left the hall. There was a general rush for the door. Close to Irene, a young French girl was heatedly disputing some point with her mother.

“Mais, il t’a donné sa bénédiction, ma chère,” persuaded the mother. “He has blessed us all. What more do you want?”

But the girl was not consoled, and only looked sadly at the door, behind which the Pope had disappeared.

Irene understood: she, too, felt sad at the thought that she would never again see that beautiful Christian smile.

V

The same evening, Irene announced to Père Etienne that all her doubts were at an end, and that she had decided to take the Veil. She would now only ask him to find her a suitable convent.

“There are many orders of nuns in Rome,” answered the Father, reflectively, “each with a particular aim and purpose. There are sisters who nurse the sick, and others who educate children. It seems to me that the order most suited in your case is that of the Sœurs Mauves. They lead very secluded lives, pray a great deal, and keep watch, night and day, over the Holy Sacrament. You can see them every day at Vespers in their Church of Santa Petronilla in the Via Gallia.”

Trembling with emotion, Irene turned her steps towards this convent, half afraid of her own first impression. When she entered, the church was almost empty. A few stray old men and old women were dreaming on chairs, waiting for the service. Like most modern Roman churches, Santa Petronilla was ablaze with gilding and profusely decorated with pictures. On either side, up above, were galleries of quite theatrical appearance, painted mauve and white, the colours of the convent. A transparent, high, carved partition divided the church into two parts: the one nearest the entrance for the public, the other, nearest the altar, for the nuns. At present, all was dark and empty, only one feeble taper was burning on the altar.

Irene took a seat in the first row, quite close to the partition, and prepared to contemplate her future surroundings. It was a long time before the silence was broken by the slow, dull sound of the church bells. The altar was suddenly brightly illuminated, and a procession of nuns appeared through the door. They entered in couples, knelt for a moment, one couple at a time, before the altar, and then slowly, gracefully, with soundless footsteps, made their way to their places. They were dressed in white robes with long trains, and wide mauve borders. White veils hid their faces, and fell at the back in graceful folds over their trains. These veils were so thick, that it was impossible to distinguish the ages of their wearers. With soft white hands, the nuns clasped the golden crosses on their breasts, as they slowly sank into their places, threw back their veils, and, directing their gaze to the altar, remained immovable in the most graceful of poses. Somewhere in the distance an organ began to play, and an invisible choir sang a prayer, or, rather, a beautiful Italian operatic air.

Something long forgotten stirred restlessly in Irene’s heart. “But these are my vestal virgins!” she thought, with a thrill of emotion—those beloved vestal virgins that had always so deeply appealed to her imagination, and whose disappearance she had so often regretted. It seemed to her that no reforms and no amount of progress could ever give back to women the high position occupied in ancient Rome by the handmaidens of the goddess Vesta. Everyone had bowed before them; with a movement of the hand they had the power to pardon prisoners condemned to death; they were present at all ceremonies, games, and performances, and formed the principal ornament of the Courts of the Roman Emperors. And here, suddenly, Irene had found them again, less mighty and less dazzling, perhaps, but more mysterious instead, and more poetical.

The service continued, and the church gradually filled with people: elegant ladies, dirty workmen, little old men and little old women, even small children brought there by religious nurses. They all joined in the hymns, and sang with the nuns. There was something strange and touching in the mingling of all those hoarse, old, untrained voices with the soft music of the choir, descending, like the song of angels, from the mauve gallery. Many of the worshippers were weeping bitterly, on their knees. From time to time the singing stopped, and one of the nuns, opening a prayer-book, read a prayer, in a soft, melodious voice. Irene watched her future companions with great emotion. They seemed so dignified, so refined, so completely _comme il faut_; life among them, indeed, promised to be charming. Nothing in their habits and manners could ever jar on her or shock her. She remembered, with a shudder, the Russian nuns who wander from village to village, collecting money for the building of churches, lifting their dirty dresses high, and showing their equally dirty, red, rough, thick peasant legs.

The service came to an end. Slowly, gracefully, the white dignified figures of the Sœurs Mauves floated away and disappeared. In their places appeared several fat, active little nuns, in short black robes, with enormous mauve bows and little white veils. They extinguished the candles, running from one candlestick to another, never forgetting their reverend genuflexion when passing the altar.

“Serving-women,” thought Irene, and the thought pleased her that she would not, even in the convent, cease to be a lady accustomed to the services of a maid. For a moment she was ashamed of the thought, but immediately justified herself: “Of course all idea of dirty work is impossible in those long snowy robes, those white slippers, and floating, shimmering veils!”

It was a still, warm evening, and the stars were beginning to show themselves in the dark blue sky when Irene left the church. There was peace in her soul as she breathed in the balmy Southern air. “Thank God!” she said to herself. “At last I have found my vocation. What matter if I do not sufficiently believe? The principal thing is to sing, to read prayers, and to touch the hearts of all those unhappy, suffering people, who come to pray with the nuns, believing in their purity and saintliness.”

Almost all unmarried women of a certain age suffer secret torments from the fact that they have actually no place in society. Irene was no exception to this rule, and she was happy at the thought that now, at last, she might be of some use in the service of humanity. To have a special uniform—an idea always dear to the Russian heart—was also a great attraction. In imagination she tried on the picturesque dress of those modern vestal virgins, making up her mind to be graceful, to float about like a white spirit, to sing, and to read prayers melodiously.

From that day, Irene never missed a single evening service in the Via Gallia. The nuns were inaccessible to outsiders, and no stranger was ever admitted to the convent—an additional fact to play upon Irene’s fancy. The convent stood on a hill. Luxurious palms and fragrant Roman pines leaned over its high garden walls, and Irene saw, in imagination, the small, interior courtyard, with its covered verandah, its slim, carved columns, its murmuring fountain, its Southern foliage and flowers. She pictured to herself the early morning; she heard the measured tones of the melodious convent bells calling the sisters to prayer; then she thought of the evening, of a golden Roman sunset, a purple sky, faint, glistening stars, and the _Ave Maria_.…

How beautiful, how poetical, seemed her future life, with its prayers, its meditations, its rapturous exaltation, its Gospel-readings, its soft singing, its incense! An enchanted existence in a Southern clime, a sweet, mystical dream, and then—death, followed by a probable awakening to some new and glorious life!

The news of Irene’s decision created a great sensation in her _pension_. Although nothing was definitely settled between herself and Père Etienne, everyone else knew which order she had chosen, and on which day she was to be received. Some even went so far as to name the dressmaker who was making her convent robes. They all constantly stared at Irene, and pointed her out to their visitors.

One afternoon, she happened to accompany Père Etienne to the hall-door, at the hour when the complicated business of afternoon tea was in progress. Small bamboo tables were scattered about between Chinese screens and immense palms, and at one of these tables, some distance away from the door, sat a good-natured, pleasant little Russian old lady, giving tea to a fellow-countryman, a tall, handsome, energetic, young-looking Russian of about forty, with an occasional grey thread in his thick, dark hair. The old lady, with a whispered remark, pointed Irene out to her visitor. He looked round with some curiosity, and then muttered, with a frown:

“What is this stupid, new fashion? Our women seem unable to look at a Roman priest without renouncing Orthodoxy!”

VI

A magnificent January moonlight night had wrapped the world in its silence. Rome was nestling in the warm, pale blue air; there were fantastic shapes and shadows everywhere; the magic of the darkness had wiped out all contrasts between ruins and modern buildings, and everything alike, churches, houses, streets, seemed unreal and enchanted.

Most beautiful of all, however, was the Colosseum, towards which Irene turned her steps that night. Like all foreigners, she had considered it her duty to see this famous ruin by moonlight, and had on a previous occasion visited it for this purpose, in company with several of the tourists staying at her _pension_. Their commonplace expressions of delight, however, had entirely spoilt the impression for her, and this time, tempted by the clear moonlight, she decided to go alone, and enjoy the unique beauty of the Colosseum in solitude.

Fate was kind to Irene. The enormous circus was entirely deserted but for the almost invisible shadows of a few distant tourists, and the outline of a tall man standing at the entrance, wrapt in admiration of the grandiose spectacle. Irene had just seated herself on a stone, when suddenly out of the shadows, as though from nowhere, sprang the figure of an old guide, declaiming pathetically, and addressing himself to Irene:

“Voici ce fameux Colisée, ce cirque épatant, où les malheureux chrétiens⸺”

Irene was so annoyed, that she cried out, and even shook her umbrella at him. The guide cut short his eloquence, and turned away grumbling. Irene suddenly felt ashamed. She followed the poor old man and offered him money, but the proud Roman refused. Cursing Irene and all her relations and friends, and expressing the wish that her first-born might be burnt in hell, he withdrew with dignity.

Irene turned round. The tall Russian had been watching the scene with interest. They looked at each other, and both involuntarily laughed.

“What a good thing you drove away that old parrot!” said the stranger. “These guides simply spoil Italy for foreigners. I am sure tourists would willingly pay a tax for their benefit, only to be rid of them, and to be allowed to admire Italy’s treasures in peace. I am always positively wild with rage when they begin to declaim, and to offer me elementary information that we all acquired years ago at school!”

Irene listened sympathetically, and suddenly realized with astonishment that the stranger was addressing her in Russian. How could he have found out that she was Russian!

The speaker noticed her surprise, and smiled.

“I had the pleasure of seeing you in your _pension_,” he explained, “I went there to see Anna Sergeievna Boutourina.”

“Oh! Do you know Anna Sergeievna? Isn’t she a charming old lady?”

“Very charming. I have known her since my childhood; I used to go and stay with her as a little boy. Allow me to introduce myself: Sergei Gzhatski, Marshal of the Nobility in the province of S⸺.”

They began to speak of S⸺, and discovered mutual acquaintances. But their conversation soon came to a stop. The magic beauty of the night threw its enchantment over them. They mounted the steps of the amphitheatre, sat down on the steps, and remained silent, in admiration of the glorious scene. Pale blue clouds were floating above them, from time to time veiling the moon. The high walls, with their immense openings, stood out like enormous lace patterns against the clear sky. Through the gaps in the blocks of stone peeped cypresses and Roman pines; high on the third floor, alternately appearing and disappearing, shone a moving light, a torch, in the hands of a guide, leading a crowd of English tourists through all the corridors and tiers of the Colosseum. Irene gazed fixedly at this wavering light, and suddenly her thoughts wandered back to ancient times, to the early years of Christianity.

* * * * *

The warm moon shone in those days, just as now, she dreamed; the little clouds floated across the same sky; the cypresses looked in at the same windows. The torches gleamed like this one, only there were many of them, and they moved not through the tiers and balconies, but in the arena, rising and falling, in the hands of Romans clad in togas and tunics. This afternoon the games beloved of Romans had taken place, and many Christians had been thrown to the wild beasts. The festive crowd of onlookers had left the circus, chattering gaily and animatedly, and hurried homeward to merry suppers. The wild beasts, having eaten sumptuously, are now sleeping in their cages. The night has fallen peacefully on Rome, and with the darkness there has appeared in the arena a silent assemblage; the friends and relations of to-day’s martyred Christians. For large sums of money they have bought, from the keepers of the Colosseum, the right to take away the bodies of the victims. Stifling their sobs, silently, like shadows of mourning, they pass from one corpse to another, bending down, searching by the light of their torches for the remains of some dear one. Having found what they sought, they fall, with a dull cry, to the ground, and gaze with horror at the stiffened features. There, beside a torn white tunic, some long black tresses, and two soft, girlish hands, sits an old woman, richly but tastelessly dressed, and with blunt, plebeian features. She is swaying hopelessly from side to side, and, in a pitiful, wailing voice, is telling her sorrow to an old man, who listens sympathetically.