CHAPTER
II
I
It seemed to
Percy Franklin as he drew near Rome, sliding five hundred feet high through the
summer dawn, that he was approaching the very gates of heaven, or, still
better, he was as a child coming home. For what he had left behind him ten
hours before in London was not a bad specimen, he thought, of the superior
mansions of hell. It was a world whence God seemed to have withdrawn Himself,
leaving it indeed in a state of profound complacency - a state without hope or
faith, but a condition in which, although life continued, there was absent the
one essential to well-being. It was not that there was not expectation - for
London was on tip-toe with excitement. There were rumours of all kinds:
Felsenburgh was coming back; he was back; he had never gone. He was to be
President of the Council, Prime Minister, Tribune, with full capacities of
democratic government and personal sacro-sanctity, even King - if not Emperor
of the West. The entire constitution was to be remodelled, there was to be a
complete rearrangement of the pieces; crime was to be abolished by the
mysterious power that had killed war; there was to be free food—the secret of
life was discovered, there was to be no more death - so the rumours ran… Yet
that was lacking, to the priest's mind, which made life worth living…
In Paris, while
the volor waited at the great station at Montmartre, once known as the Church
of the Sacred Heart, he had heard the roaring of the mob in love with life at
last, and seen the banners go past. As it rose again over the suburbs he had
seen the long lines of trains streaming in, visible as bright serpents in the
brilliant glory of the electric globes, bringing the country folk up to the
Council of the Nation which the legislators, mad with drama, had summoned to
decide the great question. At Lyons it had been the same. The night was as
clear as the day, and as full of sound. Mid France was arriving to register its
votes.
He had fallen
asleep as the cold air of the Alps began to envelop the car, and had caught but
glimpses of the solemn moonlit peaks below him, the black profundities of the
gulfs, the silver glint of the shield-like lakes, and the soft glow of
Interlaken and the towns in the Rhone valley. Once he had been moved in spite
of himself, as one of the huge German volors had passed in the night, a blaze
of ghostly lights and gilding, resembling a huge moth with antennae of electric
light, and the two ships had saluted one another through half a league of
silent air, with a pathetic cry as of two strange night-birds who have no
leisure to pause. Milan and Turin had been quiet, for Italy was organised on
other principles than France, and Florence was not yet half awake. And now the
Campagna was slipping past like a grey-green rug, wrinkled and tumbled, five
hundred feet beneath, and Rome was all but in sight. The indicator above his
seat moved its finger from one hundred to ninety miles.
He shook off the
doze at last, and drew out his office book; but as he pronounced the words his
attention was elsewhere, and, when Prime was said, he closed the book once
more, propped himself more comfortably, drawing the furs round him, and
stretching his feet on the empty seat opposite. He was alone in his
compartment; the three men who had come in at Paris had descended at Turin.
* * * * *
He had been remarkably relieved when the message
had come three days before from the Cardinal-Protector, bidding him make
arrangements for a long absence from England, and, as soon as that was done, to
come to Rome. He understood that the ecclesiastical authorities were really
disturbed at last.
He reviewed the
last day or two, considering the report he would have to present. Since his
last letter, three days before, seven notable apostasies had taken place in
Westminster diocese alone, two priests and five important laymen. There was
talk of revolt on all sides; he had seen a threatening document, called a
"petition," demanding the right to dispense with all ecclesiastical
vestments, signed by one hundred and twenty priests from England and Wales. The
"petitioners" pointed out that persecution was coming swiftly at the
hands of the mob; that the Government was not sincere in the promises of
protection; they hinted that religious loyalty was already strained to
breaking-point even in the case of the most faithful, and that with all but
those it had already broken.
And as to his
comments Percy was clear. He would tell the authorities, as he had already told
them fifty times, that it was not persecution that mattered; it was this new
outburst of enthusiasm for Humanity - an enthusiasm which had waxed a
hundredfold more hot since the coming of Felsenburgh and the publication of the
Eastern news - which was melting the hearts of all but the very few. Man had
suddenly fallen in love with man. The conventional were rubbing their eyes and
wondering why they had ever believed, or even dreamed, that there was a God to
love, asking one another what was the secret of the spell that had held them so
long. Christianity and Theism were passing together from the world's mind as a
morning mist passes when the sun comes up. His recommendations - ? Yes, he had
those clear, and ran them over in his mind with a sense of despair.
For himself, he
scarcely knew if he believed what he professed. His emotions seemed to have
been finally extinguished in the vision of the white car and the silence of the
crowd that evening three weeks before. It had been so horribly real and
positive; the delicate aspirations and hopes of the soul appeared so shadowy
when compared with that burning, heart-shaking passion of the people. He had
never seen anything like it; no congregation under the spell of the most
kindling preacher alive had ever responded with one-tenth of the fervour with
which that irreligious crowd, standing in the cold dawn of the London streets,
had greeted the coming of their saviour. And as for the man himself - Percy
could not analyse what it was that possessed him as he had stared, muttering
the name of Jesus, on that quiet figure in black with features and hair so like
his own. He only knew that a hand had gripped his heart - a hand warm, not cold
- and had quenched, it seemed, all sense of religious conviction. It had only
been with an effort that sickened him to remember, that he had refrained from
that interior act of capitulation that is so familiar to all who have
cultivated an inner life and understand what failure means. There had been one
citadel that had not flung wide its gates - all else had yielded. His emotions
had been stormed, his intellect silenced, his memory of grace obscured, a
spiritual nausea had sickened his soul, yet the secret fortress of the will
had, in an agony, held fast the doors and refused to cry out and call
Felsenburgh king.
Ah! how he had
prayed during those three weeks! It appeared to him that he had done little
else; there had been no peace. Lances of doubt thrust again and again through
door and window; masses of argument had crashed from above; he had been on the
alert day and night, repelling this, blindly, and denying that, endeavouring to
keep his foothold on the slippery plane of the supernatural, sending up cry
after cry to the Lord Who hid Himself. He had slept with his crucifix in his
hand, he had awakened himself by kissing it; while he wrote, talked, ate,
walked, and sat in cars, the inner life had been busy-making frantic speechless
acts of faith in a religion which his intellect denied and from which his
emotions shrank. There had been moments of ecstasy - now in a crowded street,
when he recognised that God was all, that the Creator was the key to the
creature's life, that a humble act of adoration was transcendently greater than
the most noble natural act, that the Supernatural was the origin and end of
existence there had come to him such moments in the night, in the silence of
the Cathedral, when the lamp flickered, and a soundless air had breathed from
the iron door of the tabernacle. Then again passion ebbed, and left him
stranded on misery, but set with a determination (which might equally be that
of pride or faith) that no power in earth or hell should hinder him from
professing Christianity even if he could not realise it. It was Christianity
alone that made life tolerable.
Percy drew a long
vibrating breath, and changed his position; for far away his unseeing eyes had
descried a dome, like a blue bubble set on a carpet of green; and his brain had
interrupted itself to tell him that this was Rome. He got up presently, passed
out of his compartment, and moved forward up the central gangway, seeing, as he
went, through the glass doors to right and left his fellow-passengers, some
still asleep, some staring out at the view, some reading. He put his eye to the
glass square in the door, and for a minute or two watched, fascinated, the
steady figure of the steerer at his post. There he stood motionless, his hands
on the steel circle that directed the vast wings, his eyes on the wind-gauge that
revealed to him as on the face of a clock both the force and the direction of
the high gusts; now and again his hands moved slightly, and the huge fans
responded, now lifting, now lowering. Beneath him and in front, fixed on a
circular table, were the glass domes of various indicators - Percy did not know
the meaning of half - one seemed a kind of barometer, intended, he guessed, to
declare the height at which they were travelling, another a compass. And
beyond, through the curved windows, lay the enormous sky. Well, it was all very
wonderful, thought the priest, and it was with the force of which all this was
but one symptom that the supernatural had to compete.
He sighed,
turned, and went back to his compartment.
It was an
astonishing vision that began presently to open before him - scarcely beautiful
except for its strangeness, and as unreal as a raised map. Far to his right, as
he could see through the glass doors, lay the grey line of the sea against the
luminous sky, rising and falling ever so slightly as the car, apparently
motionless, tilted imperceptibly against the western breeze; the only other
movement was the faint pulsation of the huge throbbing screw in the rear. To
the left stretched the limitless country, flitting beneath, in glimpses seen
between the motionless wings, with here and there the streak of a village,
flattened out of recognition, or the flash of water, and bounded far away by
the low masses of the Umbrian hills; while in front, seen and gone again as the
car veered, lay the confused line of Rome and the huge new suburbs, all crowned
by the great dome growing every instant. Around, above and beneath, his eyes
were conscious of wide air-spaces, overhead deepening into lapis-lazuli down to
horizons of pale turquoise. The only sound, of which he had long ceased to be
directly conscious, was that of the steady rush of air, less shrill now as the
speed began to drop down – down - to forty miles an hour. There was a clang of
a bell, and immediately he was aware of a sense of faint sickness as the car
dropped in a glorious swoop, and he staggered a little as he grasped his rugs
together. When he looked again the motion seemed to have ceased; he could see
towers ahead, a line of house-roofs, and beneath he caught a glimpse of a road
and more roofs with patches of green between. A bell clanged again, and a long
sweet cry followed. On all sides he could hear the movement of feet; a guard in
uniform passed swiftly along the glazed corridor; again came the faint nausea;
and as he looked up once more from his luggage for an instant he saw the dome,
grey now and lined, almost on a level with his own eyes, huge against the vivid
sky. The world span round for a moment; he shut his eyes, and when he looked
again walls seemed to heave up past him and stop, swaying. There was the last
bell, a faint vibration as the car grounded in the steel-netted dock; a line of
faces rocked and grew still outside the windows, and Percy passed out towards
the doors, carrying his bags.
II
He still felt a
sense of insecure motion as he sat alone over coffee an hour later in one of
the remote rooms of the Vatican; but there was a sense of exhilaration as well,
as his tired brain realised where he was. It had been strange to drive over the
rattling stones in the weedy little cab, such as he remembered ten years ago
when he had left Rome, newly ordained. While the world had moved on, Rome had
stood still; she had other affairs to think of than physical improvements, now
that the spiritual weight of the earth rested entirely upon her shoulders. All
had seemed unchanged - or rather it had reverted to the condition of nearly one
hundred and fifty years ago. Histories related how the improvements of the
Italian government had gradually dropped out of use as soon as the city, eighty
years before, had been given her independence; the trains ceased to run; volors
were not allowed to enter the walls; the new buildings, permitted to remain,
had been converted to ecclesiastical use; the Quirinal became the offices of
the "Red Pope"; the embassies, huge seminaries; even the Vatican
itself, with the exception of the upper floor, had become the abode of the
Sacred College, who surrounded the Supreme Pontiff as stars their sun.
It was an
extraordinary city, said antiquarians - the one living example of the old days.
Here were to be seen the ancient inconveniences, the insanitary horrors, the
incarnation of a world given over to dreaming. The old Church pomp was back,
too; the cardinals drove again in gilt coaches; the Pope rode on his white
mule; the Blessed Sacrament went through the ill-smelling streets with the
sound of bells and the light of lanterns. A brilliant description of it had
interested the civilised world immensely for about forty-eight hours; the
appalling retrogression was still used occasionally as the text for violent
denunciations by the poorly educated; the well-educated had ceased to do
anything but take for granted that superstition and progress were
irreconcilable enemies.
Yet Percy, even
in the glimpses he had had in the streets, as he drove from the volor station
outside the People's Gate, of the old peasant dresses, the blue and red-fringed
wine carts, the cabbage-strewn gutters, the wet clothes flapping on strings,
the mules and horses - strange though these were, he had found them a
refreshment. It had seemed to remind him that man was human, and not divine as
the rest of the world proclaimed - human, and therefore careless and
individualistic; human, and therefore occupied with interests other than those
of speed, cleanliness, and precision.
The room in which
he sat now by the window with shading blinds, for the sun was already hot,
seemed to revert back even further than to a century-and-a-half. The old damask
and gilding that he had expected was gone, and its absence gave the impression
of great severity. There was a wide deal table running the length of the room,
with upright wooden arm chairs set against it; the floor was red-tiled, with
strips of matting for the feet, the white, distempered walls had only a couple
of old pictures hung upon them, and a large crucifix flanked by candles stood
on a little altar by the further door. There was no more furniture than that,
with the exception of a writing-desk between the windows, on which stood a
typewriter. That jarred somehow on his sense of fitness, and he wondered at it.
He finished the
last drop of coffee in the thick-rimmed white cup, and sat back in his chair.
* * * * *
Already the burden was lighter, and he was
astonished at the swiftness with which it had become so. Life looked simpler
here; the interior world was taken more for granted; it was not even a matter
of debate. There it was, imperious and objective, and through it glimmered to
the eyes of the soul the old Figures that had become shrouded behind the rush
of worldly circumstance. The very shadow of God appeared to rest here; it was
no longer impossible to realise that the saints watched and interceded, that
Mary sat on her throne, that the white disc on the altar was Jesus Christ.
Percy was not yet at peace after all, he had been but an hour in Rome; and air,
charged with never so much grace, could scarcely do more than it had done. But
he felt more at ease, less desperately anxious, more childlike, more content to
rest on the authority that claimed without explanation, and asserted that the
world, as a matter of fact, proved by evidences without and within, was made
this way and not that, for this purpose and not the other. Yet he had used the
conveniences which he hated; he had left London a bare twelve hours before, and
now here he sat in a place which was either a stagnant backwater of life, or
else the very mid-current of it; he was not yet sure which.
* * * * *
There was a step outside, a handle was turned; and
the Cardinal-Protector came through.
Percy had not
seen him for four years, and for a moment scarcely recognised him.
It was a very old
man that he saw now, bent and feeble, his face covered with wrinkles, crowned
by very thin, white hair, and the little scarlet cap on top; he was in his
black Benedictine habit with a plain abbatial cross on his breast, and walked
hesitatingly, with a black stick. The only sign of vigour was in the narrow
bright slit of his eyes showing beneath drooping lids. He held out his hand,
smiling, and Percy, remembering in time that he was in the Vatican, bowed low
only as he kissed the amethyst.
"Welcome to
Rome, father," said the old man, speaking with an unexpected briskness.
"They told me you were here half-an-hour ago; I thought I would leave you
to wash and have your coffee."
Percy murmured
something.
"Yes; you
are tired, no doubt," said the Cardinal, pulling out a chair.
"Indeed not,
your Eminence. I slept excellently."
The Cardinal made
a little gesture to a chair.
"But I must
have a word with you. The Holy Father wishes to see you at eleven
o'clock."
Percy started a
little.
"We move
quickly in these days, father… There is no time to dawdle. You understand that
you are to remain in Rome for the present?"
"I have made
all arrangements for that, your Eminence."
"That is
very well… We are pleased with you here, Father Franklin. The Holy Father has
been greatly impressed by your comments. You have foreseen things in a very
remarkable manner."
Percy flushed
with pleasure. It was almost the first hint of encouragement he had had.
Cardinal Martin went on.
"I may say
that you are considered our most valuable correspondent - certainly in England.
That is why you are summoned. You are to help us here in future - a kind of
consultor: any one can relate facts; not every one can understand them… You
look very young, father. How old are you?"
"I am
thirty-three, your Eminence."
"Ah! your
white hair helps you… Now, father, will you come with me into my room? It is
now eight o'clock. I will keep you till nine - no longer. Then you shall have
some rest, and at eleven I shall take you up to his Holiness."
Percy rose with a
strange sense of elation, and ran to open the door for the Cardinal to go
through.
III
At a few minutes
before eleven Percy came out of his little white-washed room in his new
ferraiuola, soutane and buckle shoes, and tapped at the door of the Cardinal's
room.
He felt a great
deal more self-possessed now. He had talked to the Cardinal freely and
strongly, had described the effect that Felsenburgh had had upon London, and
even the paralysis that had seized upon himself. He had stated his belief that
they were on the edge of a movement unparalleled in history: he related little
scenes that he had witnessed - a group kneeling before a picture of
Felsenburgh, a dying man calling him by name, the aspect of the crowd that had
waited in Westminster to hear the result of the offer made to the stranger. He
showed him half-a-dozen cuttings from newspapers, pointing out their hysterical
enthusiasm; he even went so far as to venture upon prophecy, and to declare his
belief that persecution was within reasonable distance.
"The world
seems very oddly alive," he said; "it is as if the whole thing was
flushed and nervous."
The Cardinal
nodded.
"We,
too," he said, "even we feel it."
For the rest the
Cardinal had sat watching him out of his narrow eyes, nodding from time to
time, putting an occasional question, but listening throughout with great
attention.
"And your
recommendations, father -" he had said, and then interrupted himself.
"No, that is too much to ask. The Holy Father will speak of that."
He had
congratulated him upon his Latin then - for they had spoken in that language
throughout this second interview; and Percy had explained how loyal Catholic
England had been in obeying the order, given ten years before, that Latin
should become to the Church what Esperanto was becoming to the world.
"That is
very well," said the old man. "His Holiness will be pleased at
that."
At his second tap
the door opened and the Cardinal came out, taking him by the arm without a
word; and together they turned to the lift entrance.
Percy ventured to
make a remark as they slid noiselessly up towards the papal apartment.
"I am
surprised at the lift, your Eminence, and the typewriter in the
audience-room."
"Why,
father?"
"Why, all
the rest of Rome is back in the old days."
The Cardinal
looked at him, puzzled.
"Is it? I
suppose it is. I never thought of that."
A Swiss guard
flung back the door of the lift, saluted and went before them along the plain
flagged passage to where his comrade stood. Then he saluted again and went
back. A Pontifical chamberlain, in all the sombre glory of purple, black, and a
Spanish ruff, peeped from the door, and made haste to open it. It really seemed
almost incredible that such things still existed.
"In a
moment, your Eminence," he said in Latin. "Will your Eminence wait
here?"
It was a little
square room, with half-a-dozen doors, plainly contrived out of one of the huge
old halls, for it was immensely high, and the tarnished gilt cornice vanished
directly in two places into the white walls. The partitions, too, seemed thin;
for as the two men sat down there was a murmur of voices faintly audible, the
shuffling of footsteps, and the old eternal click of the typewriter from which
Percy hoped he had escaped. They were alone in the room, which was furnished
with the same simplicity as the Cardinal's - giving the impression of a curious
mingling of ascetic poverty and dignity by its red-tiled floor, its white
walls, its altar and two vast bronze candlesticks of incalculable value that
stood on the dais. The shutters here, too, were drawn; and there was nothing to
distract Percy from the excitement that surged up now tenfold in heart and brain.
It was Papa
Angelicus whom he was about to see; that amazing old man who had been appointed
Secretary of State just fifty years ago, at the age of thirty, and Pope nine
years previously. It was he who had carried out the extraordinary policy of
yielding the churches throughout the whole of Italy to the Government, in
exchange for the temporal lordship of Rome, and who had since set himself to
make it a city of saints. He had cared, it appeared, nothing whatever for the
world's opinion; his policy, so far as it could be called one, consisted in a
very simple thing: he had declared in Epistle after Epistle that the object of
the Church was to do glory to God by producing supernatural virtues in man, and
that nothing at all was of any significance or importance except so far as it
effected this object. He had further maintained that since Peter was the Rock,
the City of Peter was the Capital of the world, and should set an example to
its dependency: this could not be done unless Peter ruled his City, and therefore
he had sacrificed every church and ecclesiastical building in the country for
that one end. Then he had set about ruling his city: he had said that on the
whole the latter-day discoveries of man tended to distract immortal souls from
a contemplation of eternal verities - not that these discoveries could be
anything but good in themselves, since after all they gave insight into the
wonderful laws of God - but that at present they were too exciting to the
imagination. So he had removed the trams, the volors, the laboratories, the
manufactories - saying that there was plenty of room for them outside Rome—and
had allowed them to be planted in the suburbs: in their place he had raised
shrines, religious houses and Calvaries. Then he had attended further to the
souls of his subjects. Since Rome was of limited area, and, still more because
the world corrupted without its proper salt, he allowed no man under the age of
fifty to live within its walls for more than one month in each year, except
those who received his permit. They might live, of course, immediately outside
the city (and they did, by tens of thousands), but they were to understand that
by doing so they sinned against the spirit, though not the letter, of their
Father's wishes. Then he had divided the city into national quarters, saying
that as each nation had its peculiar virtues, each was to let its light shine
steadily in its proper place. Rents had instantly begun to rise, so he had
legislated against that by reserving in each quarter a number of streets at
fixed prices, and had issued an ipso facto excommunication against all who
erred in this respect. The rest were abandoned to the millionaires. He had
retained the Leonine City entirely at his own disposal. Then he had restored
Capital Punishment, with as much serene gravity as that with which he had made
himself the derision of the civilised world in other matters, saying that
though human life was holy, human virtue was more holy still; and he had added
to the crime of murder, the crimes of adultery, idolatry and apostasy, for
which this punishment was theoretically sanctioned. There had not been,
however, more than two such executions in the eight years of his reign, since
criminals, of course, with the exception of devoted believers, instantly made
their way to the suburbs, where they were no longer under his jurisdiction.
But he had not
stayed here. He had sent once more ambassadors to every country in the world,
informing the Government of each of their arrival. No attention was paid to this,
beyond that of laughter; but he had continued, undisturbed, to claim his
rights, and, meanwhile, used his legates for the important work of
disseminating his views. Epistles appeared from time to time in every town,
laying down the principles of the papal claims with as much tranquillity as if
they were everywhere acknowledged. Freemasonry was steadily denounced, as well
as democratic ideas of every kind; men were urged to remember their immortal
souls and the Majesty of God, and to reflect upon the fact that in a few years
all would be called to give their account to Him Who was Creator and Ruler of
the world, Whose Vicar was John XXIV, P.P., whose name and seal were appended.
That was a line
of action that took the world completely by surprise. People had expected
hysteria, argument, and passionate exhortation; disguised emissaries, plots,
and protests. There were none of these. It was as if progress had not yet
begun, and volors were uninvented, as if the entire universe had not come to
disbelieve in God, and to discover that itself was God. Here was this silly old
man, talking in his sleep, babbling of the Cross, and the inner life and the
forgiveness of sins, exactly as his predecessors had talked two thousand years
before. Well, it was only one sign more that Rome had lost not only its power,
but its common sense as well. It was really time that something should be done.
* * * * *
And this was the man, thought Percy, Papa
Angelicus, whom he was to see in a minute or two.
The Cardinal put
his hand on the priest's knee as the door opened, and a purple prelate
appeared, bowing.
"Only
this," he said. "Be absolutely frank."
Percy stood up,
trembling. Then he followed his patron towards the inner door.
IV
A white figure
sat in the green gloom, beside a great writing-table, three or four yards away,
but with the chair wheeled round to face the door by which the two entered. So
much Percy saw as he performed the first genuflection. Then he dropped his
eyes, advanced, genuflected again with the other, advanced once more, and for
the third time genuflected, lifting the thin white hand, stretched out, to his
lips. He heard the door close as he stood up.
"Father
Franklin, Holiness," said the Cardinal's voice at his ear.
A white-sleeved
arm waved to a couple of chairs set a yard away, and the two sat down.
* * * * *
While the Cardinal, talking in slow Latin, said a
few sentences, explaining that this was the English priest whose correspondence
had been found so useful, Percy began to look with all his eyes.
He knew the
Pope's face well, from a hundred photographs and moving pictures; even his
gestures were familiar to him, the slight bowing of the head in assent, the
tiny eloquent movement of the hands; but Percy, with a sense of being
platitudinal, told himself that the living presence was very different.
It was a very
upright old man that he saw in the chair before him, of medium height and
girth, with hands clasping the bosses of his chair-arms, and an appearance of
great and deliberate dignity. But it was at the face chiefly that he looked,
dropping his gaze three or four times, as the Pope's blue eyes turned on him.
They were extraordinary eyes, reminding him of what historians said of Pius X.;
the lids drew straight lines across them, giving him the look of a hawk, but
the rest of the face contradicted them. There was no sharpness in that. It was
neither thin nor fat, but beautifully modelled in an oval outline: the lips
were clean-cut, with a look of passion in their curves; the nose came down in an
aquiline sweep, ending in chiselled nostrils; the chin was firm and cloven, and
the poise of the whole head was strangely youthful. It was a face of great
generosity and sweetness, set at an angle between defiance and humility, but
ecclesiastical from ear to ear and brow to chin; the forehead was slightly
compressed at the temples, and beneath the white cap lay white hair. It had
been the subject of laughter at the music-halls nine years before, when the
composite face of well-known priests had been thrown on a screen, side by side
with the new Pope's, for the two were almost indistinguishable.
Percy found
himself trying to sum it up, but nothing came to him except the word
"priest." It was that, and that was all. Ecce sacerdos magnus! He was
astonished at the look of youth, for the Pope was eighty-eight this year; yet
his figure was as upright as that of a man of fifty, his shoulders unbowed, his
head set on them like an athlete's, and his wrinkles scarcely perceptible in
the half light. Papa Angelicus! reflected Percy.
The Cardinal
ceased his explanations, and made a little gesture. Percy drew up all his
faculties tense and tight to answer the questions that he knew were coming.
"I welcome
you, my son," said a very soft, resonant voice.
Percy bowed, desperately,
from the waist.
The Pope dropped
his eyes again, lifted a paper-weight with his left hand, and began to play
with it gently as he talked.
"Now, my
son, deliver a little discourse. I suggest to you three heads - what has
happened, what is happening, what will happen, with a peroration as to what
should happen."
Percy drew a long
breath, settled himself back, clasped the fingers of his left hand in the
fingers of his right, fixed his eyes firmly upon the cross-embroidered red shoe
opposite, and began. (Had he not rehearsed this a hundred times!)
* * * * *
He first stated his theme; to the effect that all
the forces of the civilised world were concentrating into two camps - the world
and God. Up to the present time the forces of the world had been incoherent and
spasmodic, breaking out in various ways - revolutions and wars had been like
the movements of a mob, undisciplined, unskilled, and unrestrained. To meet
this, the Church, too, had acted through her Catholicity - dispersion rather
than concentration: franc-tireurs had been opposed to franc-tireurs. But during
the last hundred years there had been indications that the method of warfare
was to change. Europe, at any rate, had grown weary of internal strife; the
unions first of Labour, then of Capital, then of Labour and Capital combined,
illustrated this in the economic sphere; the peaceful partition of Africa in
the political sphere; the spread of Humanitarian religion in the spiritual
sphere. Over against this must be placed the increased centralisation of the
Church. By the wisdom of her pontiffs, over-ruled by God Almighty, the lines
had been drawing tighter every year. He instanced the abolition of all local
usages, including those so long cherished by the East, the establishment of the
Cardinal-Protectorates in Rome, the enforced merging of all friars into one
Order, though retaining their familiar names, under the authority of the
supreme General; all monks, with the exception of the Carthusians, the
Carmelites and the Trappists, into another; of the three excepted into a third;
and the classification of nuns after the same plan. Further, he remarked on the
more recent decrees, establishing the sense of the Vatican decision on
infallibility, the new version of Canon Law, the immense simplification that
had taken place in ecclesiastical government, the hierarchy, rubrics and the
affairs of missionary countries, with the new and extraordinary privileges
granted to mission priests. At this point he became aware that his
self-consciousness had left him, and he began, even with little gestures, and a
slightly raised voice, to enlarge on the significance of the last month's
events.
All that had gone
before, he said, pointed to what had now actually taken place - namely, the
reconciliation of the world on a basis other than that of Divine Truth. It was
the intention of God and of His Vicars to reconcile all men in Christ Jesus;
but the corner-stone had once more been rejected, and instead of the chaos that
the pious had prophesied, there was coming into existence a unity unlike
anything known in history. This was the more deadly from the fact that it
contained so many elements of indubitable good. War, apparently, was now
extinct, and it was not Christianity that had done it; union was now seen to be
better than disunion, and the lesson had been learned apart from the Church. In
fact, natural virtues had suddenly waxed luxuriant, and supernatural virtues
were despised. Friendliness took the place of charity, contentment the place of
hope, and knowledge the place of faith.
Percy stopped, he
had become conscious that he was preaching a kind of sermon.
"Yes, my
son," said the kind voice. "What else?"
What else?… Very
well, continued Percy, movements such as these brought forth men, and the Man
of this movement was Julian Felsenburgh. He had accomplished a work that - apart
from God - seemed miraculous. He had broken down the eternal division between
East and West, coming himself from the continent that alone could produce such
powers; he had prevailed by sheer force of personality over the two supreme
tyrants of life religious fanaticism and party government. His influence over
the impassive English was another miracle, yet he had also set on fire France,
Germany, and Spain. Percy here described one or two of his little scenes,
saying that it was like the vision of a god: and he quoted freely some of the
titles given to the Man by sober, unhysterical newspapers. Felsenburgh was
called the Son of Man, because he was so pure-bred a cosmopolitan; the Saviour
of the World, because he had slain war and himself survived – even – even - here
Percy's voice faltered - even Incarnate God, because he was the perfect
representative of divine man.
The quiet,
priestly face watching opposite never winced or moved; and he went on.
Persecution, he
said, was coming. There had been a riot or two already. But persecution was not
to be feared. It would no doubt cause apostasies, as it had always done, but
these were deplorable only on account of the individual apostates. On the other
hand, it would reassure the faithful; and purge out the half-hearted. Once, in
the early ages, Satan's attack had been made on the bodily side, with whips and
fire and beasts; in the sixteenth century it had been on the intellectual side;
in the twentieth century on the springs of moral and spiritual life. Now it
seemed as if the assault was on all three planes at once. But what was chiefly
to be feared was the positive influence of Humanitarianism: it was coming, like
the kingdom of God, with power; it was crushing the imaginative and the
romantic, it was assuming rather than asserting its own truth; it was
smothering with bolsters instead of wounding and stimulating with steel or
controversy. It seemed to be forcing its way, almost objectively, into the
inner world. Persons who had scarcely heard its name were professing its
tenets; priests absorbed it, as they absorbed God in Communion - he mentioned
the names of the recent apostates - children drank it in like Christianity
itself. The soul "naturally Christian" seemed to be becoming
"the soul naturally infidel." Persecution, cried the priest, was to
be welcomed like salvation, prayed for, and grasped; but he feared that the
authorities were too shrewd, and knew the antidote and the poison apart. There
might be individual martyrdoms - in fact there would be, and very many - but
they would be in spite of secular government, not because of it. Finally, he
expected, Humanitarianism would presently put on the dress of liturgy and
sacrifice, and when that was done, the Church's cause, unless God intervened,
would be over.
Percy sat back,
trembling.
"Yes, my
son. And what do you think should be done?"
Percy flung out
his hands.
"Holy Father
- the mass, prayer, the rosary. These first and last. The world denies their
power: it is on their power that Christians must throw all their weight. All
things in Jesus Christ - in Jesus Christ, first and last. Nothing else can
avail. He must do all, for we can do nothing."
The white head
bowed. Then it rose erect.
"Yes, my
son… But so long as Jesus Christ deigns to use us, we must be used. He is
Prophet and King as well as Priest. We then, too, must be prophet and king as
well as priest. What of Prophecy and Royalty?"
The voice
thrilled Percy like a trumpet.
"Yes,
Holiness… For prophecy, then, let us preach charity; for Royalty, let us reign
on crosses. We must love and suffer…" (He drew one sobbing breath.)
"Your Holiness has preached charity always. Let charity then issue in good
deeds. Let us be foremost in them; let us engage in trade honestly, in family
life chastely, in government uprightly. And as for suffering - ah!
Holiness!"
His old scheme
leaped back to his mind, and stood poised there convincing and imperious.
"Yes, my
son, speak plainly."
"Your
Holiness - it is old - old as Rome - every fool has desired it: a new Order,
Holiness - a new Order," he stammered.
The white hand
dropped the paper-weight; the Pope leaned forward, looking intently at the
priest.
"Yes, my
son?"
Percy threw himself
on his knees.
"A new
Order, Holiness - no habit or badge - subject to your Holiness only - freer
than Jesuits, poorer than Franciscans, more mortified than Carthusians: men and
women alike - the three vows with the intention of martyrdom; the Pantheon for
their Church; each bishop responsible for their sustenance; a lieutenant in
each country… (Holiness, it is the thought of a fool.)… And Christ Crucified
for their patron."
The Pope stood up
abruptly - so abruptly that Cardinal Martin sprang up too, apprehensive and
terrified. It seemed that this young man had gone too far.
Then the Pope sat
down again, extending his hand.
"God bless
you, my son. You have leave to go… Will your Eminence stay for a few
minutes?"
