This conversation greatly perturbed Irene. She tried to assure herself that it was all nonsense; but, somehow, truth seemed to look reproachfully at her through Gzhatski’s words. Many disquieting remembrances came to her mind, and for the first time in her life she made an effort to see herself as others saw her. Life had certainly, till now, never required of her any particular activity or decision. Everything had always arranged itself without trouble. She had lived for years in the flat in which her father had died, and to which she was so accustomed. Her maids had served her mechanically, and whenever one had left, friends or neighbours had immediately recommended another to take her place, so that Irene had hardly noticed the change. When she had givenparties, she had ordered the supper at a restaurant, the French manager of which had known exactly what would please her guests.
“Rapportez vous en à moi, Mademoiselle,” he had usually remarked with confidence; “et vos invités n’auront pas lieu de se plaindre.”
In the same way, her French dressmaker had known exactly what she should wear, and Irene had relied entirely on the Frenchwoman’s good taste. In addition, she had really never had time to think out her own dresses, for, each time she had ordered one, her thoughts had rushed off to the trousseau she would some day provide for her future daughter; and the colour and fabric and fashion of all those future dresses, hats, and furs had engrossed her, for the time being, so completely that there had not been a moment left for her own immediate attire!
The greatest amount of energy Irene had ever expended had been in connection with her travels abroad—though, indeed, here also everything seemed to arrange itself without her guidance. On arriving in a strange town, she had never been allowed even to wonderfor a moment where she should stay. Having hardly set foot on the railway arrival platform, an energetic porter had invariably seized all her belongings, passed them on to some still more energetic commissionaire, and before she had had time to rub her eyes, she had been packed into an omnibus, and was comfortably driving off to some hotel. She had often reflected that there were indeed numberless kind-hearted people in the world. How many of them troubled themselves to see that she was well dressed, well fed, well housed, etc.! The money that she gave in exchange for these services seemed to her a very small matter indeed in comparison to the enormous efforts they involved.
At one time, she had greatly occupied herself with this thought. Sitting comfortably in her box at the theatre, she had wondered whether it was right that the actors should play, sing, and dance for her amusement; that cab-drivers should freeze for hours outside the theatre doors, on the chance of driving her home; that the night porter of her house should get out of bed to let her in—allthis for trifling sums of money that she could never even miss, and that she had received from her father. Was it not an impossible arrangement of society, by which so many people worked for one idler? The question had greatly disturbed Irene’s peace of mind; but just at that time she had been asked to join a society for providing poor young mothers with layettes for their babies. The object of this society was pleasing to Irene, and all her disturbing thoughts had lost themselves in an enormous ardour for knitting babies’ counterpanes. There is scarcely another manual occupation that needs as little attention as knitting. One can knit a whole counterpane so mechanically that one has hardly noticed how it happened. And so, Irene had knitted and knitted during all the long winter evenings, while her thoughts had rushed from one fancy to another. She had reorganized the Russian army and fleet; she had thought out schools of a new type, from which issued the most remarkable, active, energetic people; she had rebuilt Petrograd; she had planned new railways and laid out anew network of canals, uniting all Russia’s inland seas.
And all the time, the counterpanes had grown and grown, till at last Irene had been able proudly to present an enormous number of completed ones to the society. She had been happy in the thought that if the workmen of Petrograd provided her with all the necessaries of life, she in return provided their children with counterpanes. In this way, justice and an even balance had been restored.
It is true that the society had also imposed on its members the duty of visiting the mothers. This duty, however, Irene had point blank refused to take upon herself. It was preposterous, she had thought. What would happen if she were by chance to arrive somewhere at a moment when a child was being born? She would hear the mother’s groans and see the red, wrinkled infant. She did not even know very exactly how it all happens, and she had shuddered at the very idea of witnessing anything so nauseating. In general, she had always felt a natural disgust foreverything physical, and had never brought herself to glance without a shudder at the simplest anatomical design. In the case in point, indeed, she had preferred to knit ten extra counterpanes rather than see one of the babies for whom they were destined.
She now remembered also how she had always loved to escape from real life into the enchanted realms of novels and poems. People in books were always so charming, and all their thoughts and actions so comprehensible. They all invariably had a clear, well-defined object in life, and strove through a few hundred engrossing pages to attain this object. They were all noble and generous, and their lives were bright and beautiful. What interesting and delightful moments Irene had passed in their society! They had made her laugh and cry and suffer and rejoice, and had entertained her with the brilliancy of their wit. How dull and colourless real people had appeared beside these heroes and heroines of fiction. Real people never seemed to know for what purpose they existed, nor what to do with their lives; theircharacters were nearly always illogical and uninteresting; they were married stupidly and aimlessly, and generally to the wrong people; they just as aimlessly bore children, and did nothing but reproach them for having exactly the same faults as themselves; if, however, one of the children who had caused them nothing but torments and trouble died, they made a terrific fuss, wrung their hands in despair, and cursed God. How could Irene respect such people? Ah! if she had met in real life a Prince Andrey, from “Peace and War,” how passionately she would have loved him! And what an intimate friend she would have made of Pushkin’s Tatiana! How they would have understood each other! How much they would have had in common! Irene had often assured her friends in fun that no man in the world appealed to her as much as Sherlock Holmes.
Thinking over all this, Irene suddenly, with a shock, realized that Gzhatski was perfectly right, that she had really never lived, but had only slumbered and dreamt, and had in this way let her youth slip by. Having now understoodher own illness, was there still time for a cure, for a return to normal life? Could she renounce her contempt for humanity? Could she try to love human nature, in spite of its defects? Could she live in the world, sharing its joys and sorrows? Or was it too late? Was not Père Etienne, perhaps, persuading her to take the veil just for that self-same reason? Did not the clever priest, perhaps, regard her simply as a nervous patient, and was he not possibly trying by every possible ruse to lure her into a convent as one lures lunatics into an asylum? The thought was painful.
Gzhatski, in the meantime, having proposed to Irene in jest, knowing perfectly well that she would refuse, had suddenly, once the proposal was made and rejected, begun to think seriously about marrying her. He had for some years past quite given up his old dreams of marriage, but having during the autumn previous to his Italian journey spent two lonely months in the country, away from all his friends, alone with an old devoted but badly trained servant, Gzhatski had oftenmeditated with some sadness on the failure of his cherished plans, and on the lonely old age that awaited him. Irene’s innocence and simple-mindedness appealed to him, and emphatically as he assured her that indifference to wealth and position was a symptom of disease, this particular symptom was, nevertheless, in her case, pleasing to him. Her moral purity reminded him of his mother, though, indeed, one could hardly imagine two more diverse characters: the one deeply and passionately religious, the other embittered and indifferent even to her shattered ideals.
Taking advantage of the impression produced on Irene’s mind by the “Life of Saint Amulfia,” and her resultant disillusionment on the subject of convents, Gzhatski persuaded her to venture a little out of her seclusion, and to see something of Roman society. The season was in full swing. Crowds of English and American tourists were besieging the hotels, and were being pitilessly fleeced. The Costanzi theatre engaged one famous singer after another, and great society hostesses vied with each other in the brilliancyof their receptions. Armies of peasant women and their children, in picturesque national costumes, wandered down from the Albanian hills to sell flowers to theforestieri(foreigners). Old Rome seemed to have grown young again, and basked gaily in the golden spring sunshine.
Gzhatski took Irene to the Horse Show, organized by the fashionable “Fox-hunters’ Club.” Fox-hunting, the recreation of the most aristocratic Roman circles, is a feature of the winter season. The perfect roads traversing the Campagna, the splendid views, the fresh air, the invigorating canter across the plain, a little harmless flirtation with the most elegant of equestriennes, all this is dear to the heart of the fashionable Roman. As to the foxes, they suffer but little at the hands of their aristocratic hunters!
“The fox is an old Roman,” the more sincere sportsmen often frankly admit—“he knows every inch of the Campagna, much better than we do, and rarely lets himself be caught.”
In answer to any question about the hunt,Roman “High Life” almost invariably asserts that the day was superb. “At the start, a fox was raised, but managed to evade the hunters, and finally escaped.”
Evil tongues, indeed, assert that these foxes are mechanical, and are wound up and started before every hunt! But then—what strange rumours will not evil tongues invent! The sportsmen are never discouraged, and it is under their auspices that the annual Horse Show is organized.
On arriving at the Tor di Fiorenza, Irene was greeted by a scene as picturesque as it was new and unfamiliar to her. The races were held in a valley between low hills, the obstacles being scattered not only over the level ground, but also on the grassy slopes. The course, indeed, was a bewilderingly winding one, up-hill and down-hill, the last and most difficult barrier being placed at a considerable height, followed by a steep incline down to the winning-post.
Some of the jockeys were flung over this last barrier, head forwards! Their riderless horses, taking the leap by themselves, quietlyturned aside and began to regale themselves on the fresh grass, while the soldiers on guard picked up what was left of the unconscious sportsmen!
There were no seats of any kind provided for the public. The fashionable onlookers stood about on the grass, or sat on folding stools they had brought with them; others even, when overtired, seated themselves on the damp ground. Sometimes, the public pressed so close to the barriers that they were actually in the way, and one of the judges on horseback approached, courteously requesting the crowd to stand back. Children, brought there for some unknown reason, arranged little races and competitions of their own, and skipped merrily up and down the hills, to the delight of their parents. The Roman is a tender father, and is not ashamed of his tenderness. For that matter, the Romans present were probably in the minority, every possible nationality being represented in the assemblage. The manner, attire, and general appearance of all cosmopolitan aristocrats being similar, one could only distinguish thevarious nationalities of those present by the accent with which they spoke French, the language almost universally adopted in Roman society. Irene studied the animated picture before her with great interest. The weather was lovely. The recent rains had covered the whole valley with a carpet of new, green grass, from which peeped, here and there, a shy, little early field-flower. The air was fragrant with the scent of spring, and the pink and white bloom of the cherry-trees contrasted strangely with the solemn darkness of the Roman pines. The gay, elegant crowd laughed and chatted around Irene, and her glance wandered, with a curious sense of strangeness, from one face to another. These handsome, well dressed men, these dainty, fashionable ladies, probably making the Horse Show an excuse for some rendezvous, seemed to her to belong to some other world, and to have indeed nothing whatever in common with the ex-nun, as she, with some bitterness, called herself.
Little by little, however, Irene let herself be drawn into the whirl of Italian social life. Italian society is one of the most interesting and delightful societies in the world. It is indeed impossible not to love these charming, sympathetic, gay, splendidly accomplished and witty Southerners. What a difference between their sparkling and brilliant receptions, and the dull, heavy entertainments of Petrograd! Nowhere in Rome did Irene meet those gloomy, silent figures that wander forlornly about Petrograd drawing-rooms, only waiting for supper. They do not exist in Italy, neither does the supper. At the most brilliant receptions, there is never more than one table for light refreshments, tea, ices, wines, lemonade. Most of the guests, however, never even approach this table, butprefer, on returning home, to drink a glass of cold water, of the purity of which Romans are prouder than of the Colosseum or the Forum. They go to receptions, not for the sake of eating and drinking, but rather for laughter and flirtation and brilliant conversation. At almost every social gathering there is music and recitation. Everybody recites: poets, poetesses, and ordinary mortals. The Italian language, especially as spoken in Rome, is so musical that the recitations give pleasure even to foreigners who do not understand their meaning. There is great variety in this fashionable art. An old poet rises, requests that most of the lights may be extinguished, takes an effective attitude, and begins, with theatrical intensity, to raise and to lower his voice, rather, indeed, to sing than to speak. He is listened to with attention, but the younger generation smiles: “The old school,” it whispers disdainfully.
He is followed by a young representative of modern ideas, a North Italian poetess, on a visit to Rome. She is dressed in decadent green draperies (that suit her perfectly, bythe way!), and to the accompaniment of angular, decadent gestures, she begins to recite her lines, simply, and in a natural voice. The simplicity is studied, to the point of becoming almost a mannerism. The young people, however, are delighted, especially the men, who gaze with undisguised pleasure at the beautiful poetess.
But suddenly there steps into the centre of the room a young girl amateur, the daughter of a Roman prefect. She recites some verses by d’Annunzio. This is neither the old nor the new school, but simply a burning young Italian soul, and the charming, unaffected sincerity of her art is rewarded by storms of applause.
To singing or piano-playing Italians listen with even still greater attention. No one talks, but each listener seems lost in rapture. No one who can perform hesitates or affectedly waits to be asked half a dozen times; on the contrary, everyone is burning to show off his talent. They enjoy their own performances, and, inspired by the almost religious attention of their hearers, sing more gloriouslythan would ever be possible in the chilly North.
Art, indeed, and the worship of beauty, is the only religion of the Romans. “Art for art’s sake,” they declare, as they laugh at modern realistic literature.
“Every time we attempt to represent some inward struggle,” complained a famous Italian lady novelist to Irene, “the critics hold us up to ridicule, and say we are imitating Russian writers!”
To tell a Roman writer that his work is pervaded by a Christian spirit is to offend him deeply. He has only one ideal: his verses or his prose must as nearly as possible resemble antique art. The true Roman has a profound contempt for Christianity, a religion, in his eyes, suited only to slaves and low menials, and not to nobler natures. The Roman is a pagan, and is proud of the fact. Nineteen centuries have passed unnoticeably for him. The Eternal City, with its antique ruins, and its ancient associations, holds him enchained. In Northern Italy new ideas, new tendencies, may be possible—butRome will remain pagan for ever. Perhaps, indeed, this may explain the strong impression Rome produces on many foreigners. There are, in the world, many pagans, on whom life in Christian lands weighs heavily. They have to take part in conversations about love, about unselfishness, about kindness to one’s neighbours, etc., and, being honourable characters, this enforced hypocrisy causes them much mental torment. In Rome, where everyone is frankly pagan, and not in the least ashamed of the fact, they feel like fishes in water, and often settle there for the rest of their lives.
Most humorous of all is the fact that all this pagan world lives in the shadow of the Papal throne. In the eyes of Romans, however, the Pope has never been the High-Priest of Christ on earth. He is simply the Pontifex Maximus, and does not even wish anyone to regard him in any other light. Romans, indeed, make a point of disillusioning every religiously inclined foreigner they come across by laughing at him and holding his pious ideas up to ridicule. If he returnsin a reverent mood from a visit to the tomb of St. Peter, they hasten to inform him that, according to historical evidence, the Apostle Peter had never been in Rome, and that his place of burial is unknown. As to the Apostle Paul and other Christian martyrs, their bones were exhumed and their ashes thrown to the winds at the time of the Barbarian invasion.
Romans make jokes about their miraculous images, laugh at miracles, relate indecent stories about cardinals, priests, and monks, and present caricatures of them on the stage. No wonder, indeed, that many pious pilgrims have lost their faith in Rome.
Among the many completely pagan superstitions that are still extant in Roman society, the most notoriously absurd is that in connection with so-calledJetatori. Irene had heard of this superstition while yet in Russia, but had thought that it was in vogue solely among the ignorant lower classes of Naples. What then was her astonishment on coming across it in the most enlightened circles of Roman society! If a Roman passes an acquaintance in the street withoutnoticing him and bowing, or if he fails to invite him to one of his parties, the offended one revenges himself by announcing the other to be aJetator. Thereupon, society, immediately, as one man, turns its back on the latter! If by some chance, and in the face of public opinion, some specially fearless soul invites aJetatorto a reception, no one dreams of speaking to him, it is considered dangerous even to look at him, and heaven forbid, indeed, that one should be obliged to sit next to him! No one even mentions him, as the very sound of his name is supposed to bring misfortune. Only great wealth and high rank can save any Roman from falling under this ban. Saddest of all, however, is the fact that the wife and children and all the relations of theJetatorshare his evil influence, and, therefore, his hard fate. Irene once happened to meet, at a luncheon party, the accidentally invited wife of aJetator. Two ladies, who had been obliged to sit next to the evil one, were taken seriously ill on the same day, one with her customary liver complaint, and the other witha severe cold, having gone out too soon after an attack of influenza! Both cases were, of course, attributed to the unfortunate woman, to whom, after this occurrence, every door in Rome was closed with redoubled vigilance.
Irene was astonished to find that this superstition was shared also by the majority of the foreigners in Rome, who seemed to become infected by it on their arrival, and were cured only on their departure from the Eternal City. Such a peculiarity can only be explained by the almost unbearable force of the impression that Rome makes on most strangers. In all the rest of our contemporary great cities, we live in the twentieth century. On arriving in Rome, we are suddenly plunged into the very heart of antiquity, then rushed, without a moment’s warning, into the Middle Ages, with their Vatican, their churches, their convents, and their palaces, or flung into the whirlpool of the most brilliant and fashionable modernity. All these elements are bound up together, and one passes from one to the other in a day. The human mind is incapable of such an immense effort, becomesunbalanced, and is ready to accept and believe the wildest nonsense.
Another pagan feature in the Roman character is the extraordinary attachment of all Romans to their native city. The first question that is put to every stranger on his arrival is: “Do you like Rome?” and woe to the simple-minded foreigner who answers in the negative! The dark eyes of the incredulous Roman sparkle with indignation and astonishment, which gradually give place to a pitying contempt for the ignorant simpleton! In vain the latter tries to atone for his mistake by remarking that he does not dislike Venice or Florence. This does not touch or interest the Romans at all. In spite of a superficial union, Italy consists, as much as ever, of a number of separate states. Admiration of Venice or Naples can only offend a Roman. The stranger tries hard to explain that it is impossible to admire a town that is entirely lacking in harmony, and in which the modern buildings erected by the government nearly give one convulsions, such an eyesore is their dazzling whiteness on the background of theyellow, ancient city. He repeats in vain that being accustomed, at home, to broad, well-lighted avenues, he cannot but regard with disgust the narrow, dark alleys of the ancient quarters of Rome, while, being used to clear air and constantly watered streets, he is still more profoundly disgusted at the clouds of that particularly objectionable yellow dust that rise with every gust of wind blowing over Rome.
The Roman listens gloomily to the stranger, but is not convinced. He is not consoled by the admission that his city is very original, and that every educated man ought to see it. He requires and expects love and admiration for his “Cara Roma,” the adored fair one, for whom he would willingly die. Irene envied the Romans this fervour and the love of home which forced all inhabitants, before temporarily leaving the city, to drink of the water of the famous Fontana Trevi, and throw a coin into the fountain—superstitiously assuring themselves by this means that they would safely return. No other nation in the world has invented such a poetic superstition as this.
Being a pagan, it follows that the Roman is the most loving of fathers and the most dutiful of sons. As he knows nothing about Christianity or love and charity towards his neighbour in the broad sense, he laughs at such ideas as absurdities, and gives all the love of his heart to his own family. On public holidays, fathers are everywhere to be seen leading by the hand tiny children in their Sunday frocks, treating them to chocolate and cakes at the fashionable confectioners, and talking caressingly with them. Or else one meets young married couples, accompanied by nurses who, with airs of vast importance, carry on cushions three-weeks-old infants, concealed under clouds of lace. Babies are not hidden away in back rooms, as in other countries. From the moment of their birth, children have their rights and privileges, and, in the arms of their nurses, receive visitors!
But although Romans love and respect their little ones, they never become the slaves of the children. On the contrary, it is the parents who are adored and deeply respected, the children seeing in them the principalrepresentatives of their race. There are in Rome countless aged fathers and mothers who live in palaces and drive about in magnificent motor-cars, while their children struggle to make both ends meet, going about on foot and living in small flats. No one would ever dream of depriving his parents of anything for his own benefit, or for the sake of his children, as, alas! so often happens in Russia. This love of one’s race and one’s family is the foundation stone of Latin civilization. In the northern countries that have received their civilization through Christianity this love is not nearly so pronounced. Christianity does not encourage family interests, but, on the contrary, demands that all men should be brothers. Romans have succeeded in remaining deaf to these demands, and have kept their ancient Latin character. This is most noticeable in the Roman museums, where the types represented by the antique statues bear the most striking resemblance to modern Romans.
The Roman has remained true to the pagan passion for luxury and magnificence.Nowhere in the world can one see so many private carriages as in Rome. No self-respecting Roman goes about on foot. He must have a carriage to drive through the Corso, and, at the fashionable hour, on the Pincio. He does not care about the elegance of his horses or their harness, but his carriage must have red and yellow wheels, and his grooms must have smart liveries. In their deep-seated victorias fashionable Roman beauties lean back lazily under their enormous ostrich-plumed hats, their knees covered, not, as elsewhere, by a common traditional plaid travelling rug, but by a magnificent bear-skin or tiger-skin, the paws hanging down over the wheels.
The prices at the Costanzi Theatre are colossal. A box costs as much as £6; yet the opera is always crowded, and not only this, but the men appear in evening dress, and the ladies in low neck and diamonds! This southern cult of elegance and luxury, indeed, is in evidence everywhere. Roman women never wear everyday clothes. They always seem to be in fancy dress, appearingin fantastic bright scarlet, yellow, or green costumes, with golden caps and golden serpents. They all wear numerous necklaces, combs, buckles, brooches, mostly imitations of the antique, for which Roman jewellers are famous. This style of dress would be absurd in the North, but it suits the Roman beauties to perfection.
In spite of its paganism, however, Roman society nevertheless belongs to and is closely linked with the great family of social Europe from which Russia is hopelessly separated by centuries of culture. Irene was charmed to notice, for instance, how much universal sympathy and attention were lavished, in Roman social circles, on a foreign authoress, who was studying Roman life with a view to making it the subject of her next work. Everyone tried to help her; closed doors were opened for her, and meetings with interesting people were willingly arranged. Nobody troubled to find out whether she was talented or not, or whether her work would be translated into Italian. She had expressed a desire to work, and that was quite enough.
In the same way they helped an American, known in Europe as the Book King, to form his library. This American was a very representative example of a curious modern type produced, so far, only by the New World. Nobody knew where he had lived and what he had done in his youth. He had been born, so to say, at forty years of age, when, having made a fortune, he crossed the ocean, appeared in Paris, and announced his desire to form a library composed entirely of the works of contemporary writers, each volume to be autographed by the author, who must add a few words to explain what special idea he had intended to express in the work in question. The enterprising Yankee was profoundly ignorant, had never read anything at all, and had never heard of names known to all the world. Also he was as tactless as the majority of his compatriots; but, with true American insistence, he applied to everybody, pestered people pitilessly, and really ended by getting together a very interesting collection of books. It was his express desire that this collection should be sent to America, andshould never again leave American soil; and yet, so great is Italian generosity, on the collector’s arrival in Rome everyone helped him by making out lists of Italian writers and by introducing him to literary people.
Involuntarily, while observing all these facts, Irene’s thoughts strayed back to her own country, where, alas! things were arranged very differently. With the exception of a very limited circle of people educated in the European fashion, all the rest of Russian society is nothing but a crowd of ignorant, lazy, uncivilized bears, who spend all their lives lying half-asleep in their dens, and sucking their paws. Woe, indeed, to him who may occasionally attempt to wish for something better than this beloved, national, loutish existence, or who may perhaps by chance not only have an idea, but also a vague desire to work at it! What a howl of displeasure and derision makes itself heard in all the dens! “What!” wail the bears, “renounce our idleness, and our laziness, and our true Russian eternal nagging andgrumbling? How dares he! Murder! Treason! Cry him down! Kill him!”
All the rest of Europe has long been intelligent enough to understand that even the most microscopic effort, when added to other efforts, produces a total of labour that must be of use to all the world. Alas! It will be a very long time before the dull, stupid Russian bears are brought to understand even something so simple as this!
Irene was particularly attracted by Italian women. These charming creatures have neither nerves nor caprices. They are kind and amiable, they make friends easily, and they are ready to be of assistance to every foreigner they come across. Never once did Irene see, at Roman gatherings, anything resembling the anxious, world-worn expressions of the young girls who fill Petrograd drawing-rooms.
“Shall I ever meet my fate? Shall I have many children? Shall I be happy?” say their pale, sad, restless faces. Italian girls are bright and gay and happy. They delight in the sunshine, the flowers, and thespringtime of their own lives. They have no need to fear the future, for they know that to Italian men love is as necessary as air. They will never, indeed, have to deal with miserable Petrograd worldlings, who may try as they will to squeeze a drop of tenderness out of their icy hearts, but will always die without having succeeded!
Irene was quite astonished at herself for finding Italian society so attractive. She, a stranger, speaking another language, holding another faith, felt quite at home in its circles. She looked back with a shudder at the old days in Petrograd, and at the bitter sense of resentment and irritation with which she had invariably returned home from all social gatherings. Here, Irene delighted in those exquisite sensual entertainments, with their music, their singing, their recitations. On leaving them, she loved to take deep breaths of the balmy night air, feeling that soft sense of luxury that a tired wanderer experiences on getting into a warm, fragrant bath. “How am I to explain all this?” wondered Irene.
Alas! Like most of us, Irene did not know herself. It never occurred to her that since her earliest childhood she had never been anything but a pagan. Whereas, however, Roman paganism was hereditary and the result of centuries of voluntary enslavement to antique culture and its ideals, Irene’s paganism was simply a morbid disease. Like sufferers from progressive paralysis, who gradually sink into a state of primitive bestiality, so a diseased soul not only cannot develop, but cannot even maintain itself on a level with its contemporaries, and invariably slips back to the ideals of a past civilization.
Of all the Roman houses in which Irene visited, she most liked that of Count Primoli, who, during the season, entertained the whole of cosmopolitan Rome in his luxurious villa. Count Primoli was only half an Italian. Through his mother, a Princess Bonaparte, he was French, of which fact he was very proud. He was a delightful mixture of French wit and Italian gaiety and hospitality. Absolutely everyone went to his Wednesdays and Saturdays! The diplomatic world, famous Italian writers, French painters and journalists, celebrated singers, Indian princes, American millionaires, Russians, Swedes, and Englishmen. Romans of the higher circles visited him with pleasure, even though they disapproved of his cosmopolitanism. Count Primoli was undismayedby this disapproval, for he well knew what a service he was rendering to society.
Gloomy dullards never see anything in receptions and other social gatherings but frivolous distractions, necessary, perhaps, to youth, but positively reprehensible when indulged in by older people. In truth, however, balls and parties of every description are indispensable to all human beings and to the maintenance of their moral and mental health. A man who leads a solitary confined existence loses his equilibrium. He ceases to see things in their just perspective, exaggerates and misunderstands everything, looks at life tragically, and makes mountains out of mole-hills.
As soon as he leaves off isolating himself, comes in contact with other people, exchanges ideas with them, laughs and talks a little, his mental balance is restored, and the mountains become mole-hills again. Also, the more various are the people he meets, the more his mind broadens and develops. People who exclusively frequent their own immediate circles, be they aristocratic orotherwise, invariably grow dull and stupid. That is why the hospitable host who receives very mixed gatherings renders a great service to society—though society itself is short-sighted enough not to recognize this service.
To receive on a large scale is not as easy as people think. It by no means suffices to be rich and to issue invitations broadcast. The principal thing is to know how to receive one’s guests, an accomplishment attainable only on the two following conditions: Aristocratic extraction and love of humanity. At least three or four generations of well-born and wealthy people accustomed to social surroundings are needed for the production of a good host. Everyone who has been in the house of anouveau richeknows that he felt, on that occasion, as though he were in a restaurant. The hosts did not know how to greet their visitors, nor how to introduce or unite them, so the latter ate and drank, and having witnessed what entertainment was provided for them, left, sometimes even forgetting to say good-bye to the hosts. Alove of humanity is as indispensable to a good host as blue blood, and Count Primoli may be said to have been richly endowed with both these qualifications. He was a true “Grand Seigneur,” and knew how to make his guests feel at home. He sincerely loved them all, and wished to give them pleasure. There were some vulgar people who made fun of his charming cordiality. Had he forgotten to invite them, or had he treated them with lofty disdain, they would immediately have begun to respect him. Nice people, however, valued his kind heart, and took no notice of the silly anecdotes that rumour spread about him.
Like all ideal hosts, Count Primoli loved his beautiful villa, and never tired of improving it.
“Je veux que ma maison ne ressemble à nulle autre,” he said to his friends.
This was not easy to attain, since, in our day, it is hardly possible to invent anything really new or original. Thanks to railways, steamships, newspapers, and journals, life grows every day more level and commonplace. Almost all the world lives, eats, anddresses alike. The women of Greenland know the latest fashions as well as their Parisian sisters. The cannibals of Central Asia, imitating English lords, put on smoking-suits when they sit down to eat their roasted neighbours. The aristocratic drawing-rooms of Pekin are furnished like those of Madrid. Dinners, balls, receptions, are alike everywhere, and people travel from one end of the earth to the other noticing hardly any difference.
Count Primoli, however, managed to attain his object, and his receptions, once witnessed, were not easily forgotten.
Already, on driving up to the entrance of his villa, one felt a sense of gaiety and pleasure. The small covered courtyard was carpeted for the occasion and was decorated with flowers and the Bonaparte arms. A majestic outdoor servant, theatrically attired, received the carriages as they drove up. In the square hall, on each side of the door, stood rows of footmen, in long gold-embroidered satin tail-coats, knee breeches, white silk stockings, and buckled shoes, an original,old, and now extinct French fashion of dressing house-servants.
The costumes of these footmen, indeed, were so splendid, that many people were sure they must be original ancient liveries of the Bonaparte family, and ought to be in glass cases in a museum. Perhaps this was true; but it is nevertheless a fact that the liveries were much more effective and much more clearly remembered on the shoulders of footmen than they would have been had they been hidden in a museum. The guests, on arrival, felt that they had left their humdrum daily existence outside the door, and that they had entered the enchanted realms of fairyland. Like children who expect a Christmas-tree and surprises, they crossed the hall, with its wonderful arm-chairs of velvet and cloth of gold, and its enormous sofa, covered with fur rugs and decorated with masks from Greek tragedy. Then up the staircase, over the balustrade of which were thrown priceless brocades of all shades and colours, the walls being hung with Chinese embroideries and fans of peacock-feathers.
Upstairs, the elegant drawing-rooms, with their pink curtains and gilt furniture, were wonderful and interesting museums of Napoleonic souvenirs. Count Primoli honoured the memory of his famous great-uncle, Napoleon I., and carefully preserved all Napoleonic relics. There were masks and miniatures of the great Emperor, and other ancient family treasures, jewelled combs, fans, lace, snuff-boxes, letters, seals, and silhouettes. In a prominent place stood a large glass case, brilliantly illuminated, containing two dresses: one of green velvet, embroidered with gold, from the wardrobe of the Empress Josephine, and the other of lace over a pink foundation, the priceless robe of Marie Louise. At the side lay fans and satin slippers, to match the dresses. On the walls of the room were shelves, and on them signed photographs of the present-day members of the Bonaparte family.
Another remarkable and charming peculiarity of the villa was the wealth of flowers with which it was always decorated. Magnificent azaleas of all shades stood about everywhere,garlands of lilac were suspended from one chandelier to the other, and other garlands of hyacinths, roses, and violets, surrounded the glass cases, wound themselves round the shelves, and framed the looking-glasses.
“Quella fantasmorgia dei fiore!” laughed Roman Princesses and Countesses, as they entered. It is strange that Roman women, who are surrounded by flowers that grow in the open air all the year round, do not really care for them, and only decorate their rooms with them because it is the fashion, and because it pleases foreigners. Count Primoli, however, was a great lover of flowers, and so completely filled his villa with them that one grew faint with the sweetness of their overpowering fragrance. The air, indeed, was full of something romantic and reminiscent—one thought of old Italy and the Renaissance.
“Quand je vais chez le Comte Primoli,” said a foreign lady once, “j’ai toujours envie de parler en vers, et de demander un sorbet aux domestiques”—and there were many who shared this impression.
The crowd at these receptions was always composed of the most varied cosmopolitan elements. There was the Chinese Ambassador, who, having but yesterday cut off his “pigtail,” had thrown off his flowered robe, and wore European dress clothes with the ease andchicof a London clubman. There was the American Ambassador, whose quiet dignity stood out in relief against the noisy vulgarity of his numerous compatriots. There were members of all the Embassies with their wives, the latter attired, according to the custom of luxurious Rome, in beautiful Paris dresses, low-necked, and even in some cases set off by wonderful diamond ornaments or tiaras. All Western women consider themselves queens, and by no means object to sometimes wearing crowns, as a sign of their high rank.
Loveliest of all, however, was the Russian singer L⸺, recently arrived in Rome to fulfil an engagement at the Costanzi theatre. Perfectly dressed, and wearing wonderful pearls, she was modest, dignified, and charming. The arrival of the famous French painter, CarolusDuran, was greeted by exclamations from all sides: “Comment allez-vous, cher maître? Quel bonheur de vous voir!” But, as was to be expected from a painter, the great Frenchman was immediately attracted by the beautiful singer; and the latter, having previously announced that she never sang in private houses, offered, on learning that the charming and universally beloved old man had never heard her, to make an exception for his benefit. The painter was so sympathetic and irresistible, that no one was surprised at her wish to sing to him. He was, indeed, the personification of all that is best in France: industrious democracy, firm principles, and profound belief in God and in the triumph of right and justice.
An excellent tenor and an experienced accompanist, never very far away in Rome, were immediately forthcoming. They disappeared for a moment with Madame L⸺, and then returned to the principal drawing-room, into which all the visitors crowded to admire and enjoy what was sure to be an exquisite performance.
The artists sang excerpts from “Traviata” and “Tosca,” and, as her last number, Madame L⸺ gave some Russian melodies.
The applause was rapturous. With remarkable warmth and kindness, many of the listeners congratulated not only L⸺ herself, but also all the other Russians who happened to be present. For the first time in her life, Irene realized that it was possible to be proud of someone else’s success.
“These foreigners,” observed the Bulgarian Minister to Irene, in perfect Russian, “always imagine that we Slavs live on tallow candles. It is good to be able to show them what our songs are like, and our singers and our national Slavonic genius.”
While listening to L⸺, Irene had observed the public, and had noticed many envious glances levelled at the singer. “Why should she have everything?” they seemed to say—“beauty, talent, splendid dresses, and jewels!”
Irene would have liked to console them with the answer that every singer, every actress, indeed every great talent is endowedby fate not only with wealth and success, but also with a profound capacity for suffering. No one can sing well, play well, or write well, without living through moments of the deepest pain and anguish. Every real talent has known times of torturing depression when the heart in its agony has cried out to God: “Why hast Thou forsaken me? What have I done that I should suffer so?”
And then, at the very darkest moment, suddenly, the veil is torn from their eyes! Truth, with her flaming torch, stands before them, and they understand that God sends them suffering to strengthen and ennoble their talent, that it may touch men’s hearts and show to tired wanderers on earth glimpses of heaven.
Having once grasped this fact, men and women of talent humbly bow their heads before God’s will. Uncomplainingly and nobly they bear the insatiable yearning that tears their souls, accepting success with indifference, since they know that their own personal fame is but a secondary matter, andplays but a minor part in their mission on earth.
Irene felt that there comes a moment in the life not only of every artist, writer, or musician, but also in that of every thinking human being, when nature asks him her great question: “Canst thou relinquish personal interests and help me in my work for humanity?” On his answer depends his soul’s serenity, the peace of his old age, and his faith in God and the justice of God’s ways. For should he indeed refuse, should he harden his heart against his brothers, a despair so boundless will take possession of his soul that there will be no escape or loophole but—suicide.
Irene wondered, with a shudder, what her own answer to the fateful question would be.
“Let us go to the Palazzo M⸺,” suggested Gzhatski to Irene one bright, sunny morning towards the middle of March. “They have a very interesting family festival there to-day, and except in Rome you will nowhere see anything similar.”
So they drove to the old quarter of Rome, where most of the palaces of the Roman aristocracy are to be found.
The exterior of the Palazzo M⸺ was in no sense strikingly beautiful. It was built in something like a semi-circle, which fact seemed in old times, when the street was narrow, perfectly natural. Now, however, the Corso being straight and broad, the effect is peculiar. At some time in the Middle Ages, Saint Philip of Neri had worked a miracle in this palace, havingbrought back to life a dead child of the M⸺ family.
Saint Philip had entered the room a moment after little Paolo M⸺ had breathed his last, and had found the parents sobbing with grief and despair over the body of their beloved boy. Touched by their sorrow, the Saint had commanded the departed one to arise, upon which Paolo had immediately come back to life. “Why have you brought me back to earth?” he had asked his parents, in tones of reproach. “I was so happythere!” Struck by these words, the parents had prayed Saint Philip to let Paolo die again, and the Saint, with a wave of his hand, had released the innocent young soul, that it might fly back to a happier world.
This miracle had been performed on a 16th of March, and, to the present day, the top floor of the palazzo, with the chapel in which the remains of Saint Philip repose, is thrown open every year on that date to the people of Rome. In an unbroken stream the neighbouring poor with their little children, monks and nuns, as well as the inevitabletourists, ascend and descend the splendid staircase. The entrance to the palace is decorated for the occasion with flags and brightly-coloured draperies. In the doorway stands a servant in gold-embroidered uniform, the courtyard is crowded, and heads peep from all the little windows of the third floor.
The rooms leading to the chapel are low, with wood-panelled ceilings, narrow windows, and furniture of the Middle Ages. The chapel itself is brilliantly illuminated. Women, one after another, fall on their knees and pray fervently. This is a children’s festival, particularly dear to mothers. Monks and nuns repeat the legend in detail to the assembled crowd, the Roman poor listening reverently and with emotion, the tourists looking on with mocking smiles.
On the same day, in the great reception rooms below, the princely M⸺ family receives its friends, from four to seven. The family is of ancient and historic lineage, tracing its origin back to pre-Christian Rome. Like all the rest of the Roman aristocracy the princesare religious Catholics, firm in their allegiance to the Vatican.
Irene’s gaze wandered in mute admiration round the enormous entrance-hall, with its magnificent painted ceiling, its antique statues, and the crimson baldaquin at one of its walls. Only the most ancient families in Rome possess such a baldaquin. Under it stands the chair reserved in old days for the use of the Pope, who frequently honoured noble Romans with his visits. Across the balustrade surrounding this throne, footmen, in most wonderful blue and cerise liveries, were laying the wraps of arriving visitors, to whom at the same time a house-steward in black dress clothes and a heavy chain was handing a visitors’ book for signature. Beyond the hall could be seen long enfilades of rooms, with magnificent tapestries, pictures, statues, and many other ancient treasures of art not to be met with elsewhere. Irene particularly noticed a jewel-case in the shape of a girl’s figure carved in wood, and coloured.
The guests were assembled in the principal drawing-room, an immense room with apainted wooden ceiling of the fifteenth century. The walls were hung with crimson brocade, and covered with pictures by old masters. The portières were of heavy crimson velvet, the furniture was massive and gilt. In the middle of the room, over the red felt with which the floor was covered, lay two large white bear-skins, the only compatriots Irene met at this reception.
The whole M⸺ family was present, grandfather, grandmother, and grandson (a handsome boy of fifteen, dressed in the uniform of one of the Roman colleges)—even an eight-months-old infant in a film of white lace, presiding majestically on the knees of his nurse, an Albanian peasant woman, attired in her picturesque national costume. The tiny prince seemed to be enjoying himself more than anyone else, energetically and with gurgles of delight pulling the moustache of every man and tearing off the veil of every lady who bent over him! It was charming to see the indescribable tenderness with which the whole family regarded this latest representative of their ancient race!
In general, the festival was patriarchal and aristocratic to the highest degree—aristocratic in the true fashion of ancient times, when the nobles, really loving the people, befriended them and opened their doors to them on all festive occasions. It was so in all countries, and that wholly un-Christian and senseless gulf which now separates one class from another only came into being with the formation of the middle class, uncertain of itself, having no ground under its feet, dragging hopelessly after the aristocracy, and kicking back with hatred and repulsion the lower classes from which it had so recently risen.
At one end of the drawing-room stood a tea table, and, according to a charming Roman custom, tea, chocolate, and ices were offered to the visitors. Italians can drink hot chocolate and eat ices almost at the same time, without dying!
Irene sat down in a corner, and watched the scene before her with delighted interest. She thought of how, in Petrograd, anything connected with Catherine the Great or Alexander I. was considered ancient. Suchantiquity might, here, in this Roman Palace, be looked upon as positively modern! For the first time, Irene realized the youth of her own country. The proud girl, considering herself on an equality with the greatest Russian families, felt a little humiliated at the thought that the ancestors of her princely hosts once walked about the Forum in togas, took part in the government of ancient Rome and in the creation of a great art and a great literature, and gave their laws to the whole civilized world. She tried to picture to herself the Russia of that time: a wilderness peopled by savage hordes in skins of wild beasts, nomad tribes, wandering through forests and swamps and deserts.…
Her dreams were interrupted by the old Prince, who, noticing that she was alone, and prompted by his antique and aristocratic sense of hospitality, approached to entertain her. Irene broached the subject of the legend, and naïvely added that she supposed the chapel and adjoining rooms were only opened for this one day every year.
“No, indeed,” answered the Prince with asmile—“the rooms are in constant use, and our Chaplain holds daily services in the chapel.”
Irene felt confused, and at the same time a curious feeling of envy came over her.
“How happy these people are,” she thought, to have lived for so many centuries in the same town, in the same house, surrounded by legends and traditions and the shadows of their ancestors! All this is real—they are not masquerading in strange costumes and beliefs and customs, like emigrants of all nationalities, who spend their lives in travelling North, South, East and West, in search of new sensations and impressions. There came to Irene’s mind the thought of one of her friends, a girl with a mania for having herself photographed in the national costume of every country she visited. An entire little shelf in Irene’s Petrograd drawing-room was covered with frames from which smiled the young girl’s round, laughing, purely Slavonic little face, here under the fez of a Crimean Tartar maid, there under a Spanish mantilla, elsewhere in theguise of a Neapolitan fisher-girl. Had not Irene’s own wish to enter a convent also been nothing much more than a desire to dress up in a picturesque costume?
These thoughts reminded her of Père Etienne, and on returning to herpension, Irene wrote and asked him to come and see her. She had seen very little of him lately. Père Etienne felt that something had happened to change Irene’s ideas during her stay at Assisi—but, however much he questioned her, he couldn’t discover what that something had been. Seeing that she had drifted into social life, he regretfully left off paying her his daily visits. Like all true pastors, he always attached himself to his spiritual children, and was sincerely grieved when the circumstances of life separated him from them. The warm-hearted old man now consoled himself with the thought that he had been mistaken in taking convent life to be Irene’s vocation, and that she would be happier if she married her compatriot. In his heart, however, there still lingered an intuition that would not let him believe inmatrimonial happiness for her. No one understands human nature better than a clever priest, who hears countless confessions and looks into the deepest recesses of the countless souls that are laid bare before him.
On receiving Irene’s invitation, he went to her immediately, and they spent a charming evening together. The convent in the Via Gallia was not even mentioned. They spoke of Saint Philip of Neri, of his life and his pupils, of miracles and prayer.
The following day Irene awoke in a pious mood, and put off Gzhatski, who had arranged to take her to some local function. Gzhatski, clever strategist that he was, guessed what had happened, and hastened to create a diversion. He disappeared for a time, made mysterious arrangements, and kept mysterious appointments, and after three days, arrived suddenly to inform Irene that Cardinal R⸺ would receive her in audience at seven o’clock that evening.
“Receive me!” exclaimed Irene in surprise. “But why should I go to him?”
“Why not make the acquaintance of aCardinal, once he is kind enough to wish to receive you?” answered Gzhatski. “You have decided to join the Catholic Church, and you ought to know more of its priesthood. Père Etienne alone is insufficient—there are plenty of other enlightened and clever men among the Roman priests—they are by no means all furious fanatics!”
Irene had to agree, and punctually at seven o’clock she presented herself at the Cardinal’s house. Her conscience reproached her a little for troubling a man so occupied with important affairs, but she had heard so much about this famous Cardinal that curiosity won the day over her scruples.
Cardinal R⸺ was one of the most distinguished members of the Papal Court. He was nicknamed “le Pape manqué,” because at the last election he had received the greatest number of votes. His pronounced French sympathies, however, had, in the eyes of the other Catholic countries, stood in his way, with the result that, in answer to his election, the Austro-Hungarian Ambassador had announced the “veto” of the Austrian Emperor. The amazed Cardinals, thoughthey had long forgotten this ancient privilege of the Austrian crown, were obliged to submit, and the next candidate was elected Pope. It is a characteristic fact that Pius X. was so annoyed at his election that, on becoming Pope against his will, his first action was to annul for ever the Austrian right of “veto.”
Remembering this episode, Irene involuntarily felt a great respect for the man who had had the courage of his opinions and sympathies to the extent of paying for them by losing the Papacy. Such honesty seemed hardly in keeping with the traditional spirit of intrigue and deceit with which the Papal court was supposed to be permeated, and which Irene had so frequently heard discussed in Russia.
The Cardinal lived in a small detached house, within the precincts of the Vatican, and Irene was struck, by no means for the first time, by the resemblance between these Vatican houses and courtyards, and the inner courts and arch-priest’s dwellings of Russian monasteries. There was in both the same sense of chill and isolation and lifelessness.Even the waiting-room into which a slow old servant led Irene was exactly like the room of a Russian monastic priest. The same clumsy wooden furniture upholstered in red velvet, the same religious pictures. The only things that were missing were the typical and inevitable strip of canvas that runs like a pathway right across the floors of all our Russian priestly houses, and the extraordinary variety of worsted cushions, with their wonderful patterns of fantastic animals and flowers, embroidered for our priests by pious Russian parishioners.
A young secretary twice passed through the waiting-room, throwing, each time, a quick but scrutinizing glance at Irene. Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, he approached her, with a charming smile:
“Voudriez vous me dire, Mademoiselle,” he inquired, “le motif pour lequel vous désirez voir Son Eminence?”
Irene did not know how to answer. She really could not say that she had come simply to pacify a troublesome friend!
“J’ai entendu parler de la sympathie queSon Eminence éprouve pour les Russes,” she stammered vaguely.
“Oh oui! Oh oui!” said the secretary, nodding his head. “Les sympathies de Son Eminence pour la Russie sont bien connues. Cependant, Mademoiselle, il me semble que vous devez avoir une raison plus … plus …”
The secretary was evidently at a loss to find the right word. Noticing that he was regarding her enormous muff with interest, Irene remembered that an attempt to assassinate a highly-placed personage, had recently been made in Rome.
“I understand your anxiety,” she remarked. “There are visitors who arrive with a bomb in their muffs!” With these words, as though accidentally, she made a movement with her muff, bringing it close to the secretary’s eyes. He glanced sharply into it, and was evidently appeased.
“Oh! certes, Son Eminence sera très satisfaite de vous voir, Mademoiselle,” he said. “Veuillez attendre quelques instants au salon; Son Eminence ne tardera pas à rentrer.”
The waiting-room, in the meantime, was filling with people. An old Monsignor entered, and Irene bowed to him. To her surprise, however, he not only did not reply, but never even glanced in her direction. Another priest entered, and again the same thing happened. Then came three Capuchin monks who made obvious efforts to look at anything but Irene, and sat down at the furthest possible point from her. The proud, sensitive woman felt deeply offended and annoyed.
“Do they take me for a leper?” she thought angrily, “or am I so hideous that it disgusts them to look at me?” Suddenly, however, a humorous idea flashed through her mind. Irene had so long ago left off thinking of herself as in any sense an attractive woman, that the sudden idea of being regarded by anyone in the light of a possible temptation, caused her, quite unexpectedly, to burst into a loud peal of laughter. The monks frowned, and Irene hastened to hide her laughing face in the muff that had so alarmed the young secretary.
At this moment there burst into the room, noisily, and talking in strident tones, twolean and yellow English old maids with scant greyish hair, and enormous fashionable hats. Chattering fast and animatedly, they sat down exactly opposite the Capuchins, and robbed these victims of the only blank wall at which they could safely gaze without jeopardizing the salvation of their souls.
What were the poor monks to do? The devil evidently had awful designs on them that evening, and terrible temptation peered at them from every corner of the Cardinal’s waiting-room. As though by order, they all lowered their eyelids, and remained, as though turned into stone, with their gaze riveted on the floor.
The door opened, and Irene was asked to pass into the Cardinal’s presence.
A dimly illuminated ante-room led into the drawing-room. Here, the furniture was a little more comfortable, and there were pictures and flowers. The cardinal stood at his writing-table, not in his red robes, as Irene had expected, but in black with narrow red edgings. A somewhat worn red cardinal’s cap lay on the table. The great priest lookedat Irene in silence, and with a questioning expression. She approached, kissed the ring on his left hand, and thanked him for the honour he was conferring on her by receiving her. He smiled, and the man of the world awoke in him. Asking Irene to sit down on a small sofa, he began to question her about Russia, his words revealing a great knowledge of Russian Church matters. He seemed specially interested in a certain small group of Russian priests, who had recently been sent by the Synod to do penance in far-distant monasteries.
“Mais enfin, que veulent-ils? Que demandent-ils? Quel est le but de leur révolte?” asked the Cardinal.
“I think,” answered Irene simply, “that they wanted to convoke a council, with the object of reinstating the Patriarchy.”
The Cardinal frowned, and a shadow passed over his face. “Totally unnecessary,” he muttered somewhat hurriedly. “Totally unnecessary.” And he changed the subject, asking Irene what she had seen in Rome, and how she liked the Catacombs.
“I like the Russian catacombs much better,” she answered.
“Yes—I know—you mean the Kieff ones. But they date only from the ninth century. Remember,” exclaimed the Cardinal rapturously, “that here, in Rome, the earliest Christian martyrs are buried.”
Irene asked where the remains of the Apostle Andrew were preserved.
“Andrew?” repeated the Cardinal, stopping to think a moment. “Yes—the head is in the shrine of St. Peter’s, and the rest of the remains are distributed among various churches.”
“I ask this,” explained Irene, in answer to the Cardinal’s questioning glance, “because the Apostle Andrew is particularly dear to Russians, having been the first to teach us Christianity.”
“Of course—I know! Andrew, the brother of Saint Peter,” said the Cardinal with a subtle smile, as though wishing to underline the fact that Rome and Russia had received Christianity from two brothers. “Well, and what churches have you seen in Rome?”
Irene mentioned several of the most famous.
“Have you been to the church of Saint Cecilia?” asked the Cardinal a little uncertainly. “No?”—he was clearly disappointed. “You should go there without fail. It is my church—it has some very interesting subterranean passages.”
A tender smile suddenly illuminated the stern features of this old and serious man. Irene afterwards ascertained that Cardinal R⸺ had spent his whole fortune on the restoration and preservation of the church of Saint Cecilia. She went to see this church on the following day. The ancient shrine gleamed with cleanliness and freshness. Small electric lamps burned before the marble statue of Saint Cecilia, and flowers stood before each of her images. Irene visited the underground sepulchre that holds the remains of the Saint, and was charmed with the elegant new chapel, its small, slim columns, and its exquisite mosaics in the Byzantine style. Thus might one decorate and beautify the tomb of a beloved daughter. On entering this chapelIrene understood the true character of Cardinal R⸺, and knew that his stern exterior concealed a tender, loving heart, which, in the absence of personal family ties, had ardently attached itself to a poetical shadow, to someone’s pure and lovely image, to someone’s spotless and sacred memory.
Gzhatski was much pleased with the impression produced upon Irene by Cardinal R⸺, and announced that she must now make the acquaintance of Monsignor Lefrène, of whom all Rome was talking.
Monsignor Lefrène, a clever and highly intellectual Frenchman, had written a history of the Christian Church. The book had been published, sold, and widely read, when suddenly the Jesuit Fathers, who always play the part of defenders of Catholic purity, announced that Lefrène’s history was dangerous to the faithful.
“It contains nothing contrary to Catholic dogmas,” they wrote, “but its whole tone and tendency is offensive, and likely to do much harm.”
The book was put on the Index, and theauthor 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 theirabandonment 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.