Complete works of hall c.., p.334
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 334
“The Lord’s Prayer!”
The Baron paraded on the hearthrug. “David Rossi,” he said compassionately, “is a creature of his age. A man of generous impulses and wide sympathies, moved to indignation at the extremes of poverty and wealth, and carried away by the promptings of the eternal religion in the human soul. A dreamer, of course, a dreamer like the Holy Father himself, only his dream is different, and neither could succeed without destroying the other. In the millennium Rossi looks for, not only are kings and princes to disappear, but popes and prelates as well.”
“And where does this unpractical politician come from?” said the Englishman.
“We must ask you to tell us that, Sir Evelyn, for though he is supposed to be a Roman, he seems to have lived most of his life in your country. As silent as an owl and as inscrutable as a sphinx. Nobody in Rome knows certainly who his father was, nobody knows certainly who his mother was. Some say his father was an Englishman, some say a Jew, and some say his mother was a gipsy. A self-centred man, who never talks about himself, and cannot be got to lift the veil which surrounds his birth and early life. Came back to Rome eight years ago, and made a vast noise by propounding his platonic scheme of politics — was called up for his term of military service, refused to serve, got himself imprisoned for six months and came out a mighty hero — was returned to Parliament for no fewer than three constituencies, sat for Rome, took his place on the Extreme Left, and attacked every Minister and every measure which favoured the interest of the army — encouraged the workmen not to pay their taxes and the farmers not to pay their rents — and thus became the leader of a noisy faction, and is now surrounded by the degenerate class throughout Italy which dreams of reconstructing society by burying it under ruins.”
“Lived in England, you say?”
“Apparently, and if his early life could be traced it would probably be found that he was brought up in an atmosphere of conspiracy — perhaps under the influence of some vile revolutionary living in London under the protection of your too liberal laws.”
Donna Roma sprang up with a movement full of grace and energy. “Anyhow,” she said, “he is young and good-looking and romantic and mysterious, and I’m head over ears in love with him already.”
“Well, every man is a world,” said the American.
“And what about woman?” said Roma.
He threw up his hands, she smiled full into his face, and they laughed together.
VI
A fanfare of trumpets came from the piazza, and with a cry of delight Roma ran into the balcony, followed by all the women and most of the men.
“Only the signal that the cortège has started,” said Don Camillo. “They’ll be some minutes still.”
“Santo Dio!” cried Roma. “What a sight! It dazzles me; it makes me dizzy!”
Her face beamed, her eyes danced, and she was all aglow from head to foot. The American Ambassador stood behind her, and, as permitted by his greater age, he tossed back the shuttlecock of her playful talk with chaff and laughter.
“How patient the people are! See the little groups on camp-stools munching biscuits and reading the journals. ‘La Vera Roma!’” (mimicking the cry of the newspaper sellers). “Look at that pretty girl — the fair one with the young man in the Homburg hat! She has climbed up the obelisk, and is inviting him to sit on an inch and a half of corbel beside her.”
“Ah, those who love take up little room!”
“Don’t they? What a lovely world it is! I’ll tell you what this makes me think about — a wedding! Glorious morning, beautiful sunshine, flowers, wreaths, bridesmaids ready; coachman all a posy, only waiting for the bride!”
“A wedding is what you women are always dreaming about — you begin dreaming about it in your cradles — it’s in a woman’s bones, I do believe,” said the American.
“Must be the ones she got from Adam, then,” said Roma.
Meantime the Baron was still parading the hearthrug inside and listening to the warnings of his Minister of War.
“You are resolved to arrest the man?”
“If he gives us an opportunity — yes.”
“You do not forget that he is a Deputy?”
“It is because I remember it that my resolution is fixed. In Parliament he is a privileged person; let him make half as much disorder outside and you shall see where he will be.”
“Anarchists!” said Roma. “That group below the balcony? Is David Rossi among them? Yes? Which of them? Which? Which? Which? The tall man in the black hat with his back to us? Oh! why doesn’t he turn his face? Should I shout?”
“Roma!” from the little Princess.
“I know; I’ll faint, and you’ll catch me, and the Princess will cry ‘Madonna mia!’ and then he’ll turn round and look up.”
“My child!”
“He’ll see through you, though, and then where will you be?”
“See through me, indeed!” and she laughed the laugh a man loves to hear, half-raillery, half-caress.
“Donna Roma Volonna, daughter of a line of princes, making love to a nameless nobody!”
“Shows what a heavenly character she is, then! See how good I am at throwing bouquets at myself?”
“Well, what is love, anyway? A certain boy and a certain girl agree to go for a row in the same boat to the same place, and if they pull together, what does it matter where they come from?”
“What, indeed?” she said, and a smile, partly serious, played about the parted mouth.
“Could you think like that?”
“I could! I could! I could!”
The clock struck eleven. Another fanfare of trumpets came from the direction of the Vatican, and then the confused noises in the square suddenly ceased and a broad “Ah!” passed over it, as of a vast living creature taking breath.
“They’re coming!” cried Roma. “Baron, the cortège is coming.”
“Presently,” the Baron answered from within.
Roma’s dog, which had slept on a chair through the tumult, was awakened by the lull and began to bark. She picked it up, tucked it under her arm and ran back to the balcony, where she stood by the parapet, in full view of the people below, with the young Roman on one side, the American on the other, and the ladies seated around.
By this time the procession had begun to appear, issuing from a bronze gate under the right arm of the colonnade, and passing down the channel which had been kept open by the cordon of infantry.
Roma abandoned herself to the fascinations of the scene, and her gaiety infected everybody.
“Camillo, you must tell me who they all are. There now — those men who come first in black and red?”
“Laymen,” said the young Roman. “They’re called the Apostolic Cursori. When a Cardinal is nominated they take him the news, and get two or three thousand francs for their trouble.”
“And these little fat folk in white lace pinafores?”
“Singers of the Sistine Chapel. That’s the Director, old Maestro Mustafa — used to be the greatest soprano of the century.”
“And this dear old friar with the mittens and rosary and the comfortable linsey-woolsey sort of face?”
“That’s Father Pifferi of San Lorenzo, confessor to the Pope. He knows all the Pope’s sins.”
“Oh!” said Roma.
At that moment her dog barked furiously, and the old friar looked up at her, whereupon she smiled down on him, and then a half-smile played about his good-natured face.
“He is a Capuchin, and those Frati in different colours coming behind him....”
“I know them; see if I don’t,” she cried, as there passed under the balcony a double file of friars and monks. “The brown ones — Capuchins and Franciscans! Brown and white — Carmelites! Black — Augustinians and Benedictines! Black with a white cross — Passionists! And the monks all white are Trappists. I know the Trappists best, because I drive out to Tre Fontane to buy eucalyptus and flirt with Father John.”
“Shocking!” said the American.
“Why not? What are their vows of celibacy but conspiracies against us poor women? Nearly every man a woman wants is either mated or has sworn off in some way. Oh, how I should love to meet one of those anchorites in real life and make him fly!”
“Well, I dare say the whisk of a petticoat would be more frightening than all his doctors of divinity.”
“Listen!”
From a part of the procession which had passed the balcony there came the sound of harmonious voices.
“The singers of the Sistine Chapel! They’re singing a hymn.”
“I know it. ‘Veni, Creator!’ How splendid! How glorious! I feel as if I wanted to cry!”
All at once the singing stopped, the murmuring and speaking of the crowd ceased too, and there was a breathless moment, such as comes before the first blast of a storm. A nervous quiver, like the shudder that passes over the earth at sundown, swept across the piazza, and the people stood motionless, every neck stretched, and every eye turned in the direction of the bronze gate, as if God were about to reveal Himself from the Holy of Holies. Then in that grand silence there came the clear call of silver trumpets, and at the next instant the Presence itself.
“The Pope! Baron, the Pope!”
The atmosphere was charged with electricity. A great roar of cheering went up from below like the roaring of surf, and it was followed by a clapping of hands like the running of the sea off a shingly beach after the boom of a tremendous breaker.
An old man, dressed wholly in white, carried shoulder-high on a chair glittering with purple and crimson, and having a canopy of silver and gold above him. He wore a triple crown, which glistened in the sunlight, and but for the delicate white hand which he upraised to bless the people, he might have been mistaken for an image.
His face was beautiful, and had a ray of beatified light on it — a face of marvellous sweetness and great spirituality.
It was a thrilling moment, and Roma’s excitement was intense. “There he is! All in white! He’s on a gilded chair under the silken canopy! The canopy is held up by prelates, and the chairmen are in knee-breeches and red velvet. Look at the great waving plumes on either side!”
“Peacock’s feathers!” said a voice behind her, but she paid no heed.
“Look at the acolytes swinging incense, and the golden cross coming before! What thunders of applause — I can hardly hear myself speak. It’s like standing on a cliff while the sea below is running mountains high. No, it’s like no other sound on earth; it’s human — fifty thousand unloosed throats of men! That’s the clapping of ladies — listen to the weak applause of their white-gloved fingers. Now they’re waving their handkerchiefs. Look! Like the wings of ten thousand butterflies fluttering up from a meadow.”
Roma’s abandonment was by this time complete; she was waving her handkerchief and crying “Viva il Papa Re!”
“They’re bearing him slowly along. He’s coming this way. Look at the Noble Guard in their helmets and jackboots. And there are the Swiss Guard in Joseph’s coat of many colours! We can see him plainly now. Do you smell the incense? It’s like the ribbon of Bruges. The pluviale? That gold vestment? It’s studded on his breast with precious stones. How they blaze in the sunshine! He is blessing the people, and they are falling on their knees before him.”
“Like the grass before the scythe!”
“How tired he looks! How white his face is! No, not white — ivory! No, marble — Carrara marble! He might be Lazarus who was dead and has come back from the tomb! No humanity left in him! A saint! An angel!”
“The spiritual autocrat of the world!”
“Viva il Papa Re! He’s going by! Viva il Papa Re! He has gone.... Well!”
She was rising from her knees and wiping her eyes, trying to cover up with laughter the confusion of her rapture.
“What is that?”
There was a sound of voices in the distance chanting dolorously.
“The cantors intoning Tu es Petrus,” said Don Camillo.
“No, I mean the commotion down there. Somebody is pushing through the Guard.”
“It’s David Rossi,” said the American.
“Is that David Rossi? Oh, dear me! I had forgotten all about him.” She moved forward to see his face. “Why ... where have I ... I’ve seen him before somewhere.”
A strange physical sensation tingled all over her at that moment, and she shuddered as if with sudden cold.
“What’s amiss?”
“Nothing! But I like him. Do you know, I really like him.”
“Women are funny things,” said the American.
“They’re nice, though, aren’t they?” And two rows of pearly teeth between parted lips gleamed up at him with gay raillery.
Again she craned forward. “He is on his knees to the Pope! Now he’ll present the petition. No ... yes ... the brutes! They’re dragging him away! The procession is going on! Disgraceful!”
“Long live the Workmen’s Pope!” came up from the piazza, and under the shrill shouts of the pilgrims were heard the monotonous voices of the monks as they passed through the open doors of the Basilica intoning the praises of God.
“They’re lifting him on to a car,” said the American.
“David Rossi?”
“Yes; he is going to speak.”
“How delightful! Shall we hear him? Good! How glad I am that I came! He is facing this way! Oh, yes; those are his own people with the banners! Baron, the Holy Father has gone on to St. Peter’s, and David Rossi is going to speak.”
“Hush!”
A quivering, vibrating voice came up from below, and in a moment there was a dead silence.
VII
“Brothers, when Christ Himself was on the earth going up to Jerusalem, He rode on the colt of an ass, and the blind and the lame and the sick came to Him, and He healed them. Humanity is sick and blind and lame to-day, brothers, but the Vicar of Christ goes on.”
At the words an audible murmur came from the crowd, such as goes before the clapping of hands in a Roman theatre, a great upheaval of the heart of the audience to the actor who has touched and stirred it.
“Brothers, in a little Eastern village a long time ago, there arose among the poor and lowly a great Teacher, and the only prayer He taught His followers was the prayer ‘Our Father who art in Heaven.’ It was the expression of man’s utmost need, the expression of man’s utmost hope. And not only did the Teacher teach that prayer — He lived according to the light of it. All men were His brothers, all women His sisters; He was poor, He had no home, no purse, and no second coat; when He was smitten He did not smite back, and when He was unjustly accused He did not defend Himself. Nineteen hundred years have passed since then, brothers, and the Teacher who arose among the poor and lowly is now a great Prophet. All the world knows and honours Him, and civilised nations have built themselves upon the religion He founded. A great Church calls itself by His name, and a mighty kingdom, known as Christendom, owes allegiance to His faith. But what of His teaching? He said: ‘Resist not evil,’ yet all Christian nations maintain standing armies. He said: ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth,’ yet the wealthiest men are Christian men, and the richest organisation in the world is the Christian Church. He said: ‘Our Father who art in Heaven,’ yet men who ought to be brothers are divided into states, and hate each other as enemies. He said: ‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is done in Heaven,’ yet he who believes it ever will come is called a fanatic and a fool.”
Some murmurs of dissent were drowned in cries of “Go on!” “Speak!” “Silence!”
“Foremost and grandest of the teachings of Christ are two inseparable truths — the fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man. But in Italy, as elsewhere, the people are starved that king may contend with king, and when we appeal to the Pope to protest in the name of the Prince of Peace, he remembers his temporalities and passes on!”
At these words the emotion of the crowd broke into loud shouts of approval, with which some groans were mingled.
Roma had turned her face aside from the speaker, and her profile was changed — the gay, sprightly, airy, radiant look had given way to a serious, almost a melancholy expression.
“We have two sovereigns in Rome, brothers, a great State and a great Church, with a perishing people. We have soldiers enough to kill us, priests enough to tell us how to die, but no one to show us how to live.”
“Corruption! Corruption!”
“Corruption indeed, brothers; and who is there among us to whom the corruptions of our rulers are unknown? Who cannot point to the wars made that should not have been made? to the banks broken that should not have broken? And who in Rome cannot point to the Ministers who allow their mistresses to meddle in public affairs and enrich themselves by the ruin of all around?”
The little Princess on the balcony was twisting about.
“What! Are you deserting us, Roma?”
And Roma answered from within the house, in a voice that sounded strange and muffled:
“It was cold on the balcony, I think.”
The little Princess laughed a bitter laugh, and David Rossi heard it and misunderstood it, and his nostrils quivered like the nostrils of a horse, and when he spoke again his voice shook with passion.
“Who has not seen the splendid equipages of these privileged ones of fortune — their gorgeous liveries of scarlet and gold — emblems of the acid which is eating into the public organs? Has Providence raised this country from the dead only to be dizzied in a whirlpool of scandal, hypocrisy, and fraud — only to fall a prey to an infamous traffic without a name between high officials of low desires and women whose reputations are long since lost? It is men and women like these who destroy their country for their own selfish ends. Very well, let them destroy her; but before they do so, let them hear what one of her children says: The Government you are building up on the whitened bones of the people shall be overthrown — the King who countenances you, and the Pope who will not condemn you, shall be overthrown, and then — and not till then — will the nation be free.”
