CHAPTER
III
I
The Cardinal said
very little to Percy when they met again that evening, beyond congratulating
him on the way he had borne himself with the Pope. It seemed that the priest
had done right by his extreme frankness. Then he told him of his duties.
Percy was to
retain the couple of rooms that had been put at his disposal; he was to say
mass, as a rule, in the Cardinal's oratory; and after that, at nine, he was to
present himself for instructions: he was to dine at noon with the Cardinal,
after which he was to consider himself at liberty till Ave Maria: then, once
more he was to be at his master's disposal until supper. The work he would
principally have to do would be the reading of all English correspondence, and
the drawing up of a report upon it.
Percy found it a
very pleasant and serene life, and the sense of home deepened every day. He had
an abundance of time to himself, which he occupied resolutely in relaxation.
From eight to nine he usually walked abroad, going sedately through the streets
with his senses passive, looking into churches, watching the people, and
gradually absorbing the strange naturalness of life under ancient conditions.
At times it appeared to him like an historical dream; at times it seemed that
there was no other reality; that the silent, tense world of modern civilisation
was itself a phantom, and that here was the simple naturalness of the soul's
childhood back again. Even the reading of the English correspondence did not
greatly affect him, for the stream of his mind was beginning to run clear again
in this sweet old channel; and he read, dissected, analysed and diagnosed with
a deepening tranquillity.
There was not,
after all, a great deal of news. It was a kind of lull after storm. Felsenburgh
was still in retirement; he had refused the offers made to him by France and
Italy, as that of England; and, although nothing definite was announced, it
seemed that he was confining himself at present to an unofficial attitude. Meanwhile
the Parliaments of Europe were busy in the preliminary stages of code-revision.
Nothing would be done, it was understood, until the autumn sessions.
Life in Rome was
very strange. The city had now become not only the centre of faith but, in a sense,
a microcosm of it. It was divided into four huge quarters - Anglo-Saxon, Latin,
Teutonic and Eastern - besides Trastevere, which was occupied almost entirely
by Papal offices, seminaries, and schools. Anglo-Saxondom occupied the
southwestern quarter, now entirely covered with houses, including the Aventine,
the Celian and Testaccio. The Latins inhabited old Rome, between the Course and
the river; the Teutons the northeastern quarter, bounded on the south by St.
Laurence's Street; and the Easterns the remaining quarter, of which the centre
was the Lateran. In this manner the true Romans were scarcely conscious of
intrusion; they possessed a multitude of their own churches, they were allowed
to revel in narrow, dark streets and hold their markets; and it was here that
Percy usually walked, in a passion of historical retrospect. But the other
quarters were strange enough, too. It was curious to see how a progeny of
Gothic churches, served by northern priests, had grown up naturally in the
Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic districts, and how the wide, grey streets, the neat
pavements, the severe houses, showed how the northerns had not yet realised the
requirements of southern life. The Easterns, on the other hand, resembled the
Latins; their streets were as narrow and dark, their smells as overwhelming,
their churches as dirty and as homely, and their colours even more brilliant.
Outside the walls
the confusion was indescribable. If the city represented a carved miniature of
the world, the suburbs represented the same model broken into a thousand
pieces, tumbled in a bag and shot out at random. So far as the eye could see,
on all sides from the roof of the Vatican, there stretched an endless plain of
house-roofs, broken by spires, towers, domes and chimneys, under which lived
human beings of every race beneath the sun. Here were the great manufactories,
the monster buildings of the new world, the stations, the schools, the offices,
all under secular dominion, yet surrounded by six millions of souls who lived
here for love of religion. It was these who had despaired of modern life, tired
out with change and effort, who had fled from the new system for refuge to the
Church, but who could not obtain leave to live in the city itself. New houses
were continually springing up in all directions. A gigantic compass, fixed by
one leg in Rome, and with a span of five miles, would, if twirled, revolve
through packed streets through its entire circle. Beyond that too houses
stretched into the indefinite distance.
But Percy did not
realise the significance of all that he saw, until the occasion of the Pope's
name-day towards the end of August.
It was yet cool
and early, when he followed his patron, whom he was to serve as chaplain, along
the broad passages of the Vatican towards the room where the Pope and Cardinals
were to assemble. Through a window, as he looked out into the Piazza, the crowd
was yet more dense, if that were possible, than it had been an hour before. The
huge oval square was cobbled with heads, through which ran a broad road, kept
by papal troops for the passage of the carriages; and up the broad ribbon,
white in the eastern light, came monstrous vehicles, a blaze of gilding and
colour and cream tint; slow cheers swelled up and died, and through all came
the rush and patter of wheels over the stones, like the sound of a tide-swept
pebbly beach.
As they waited in
an ante-chamber, halted by the pressure in front and behind - a pack of scarlet
and white and purple - he looked out again, and realised what he had known only
intellectually before, that here before his eyes was the royalty of the old
world assembled - and he began to perceive its significance.
Round the steps
of the basilica spread a great fan of coaches, each yoked to eight horses - the
white of France and Spain, the black of Germany, Italy and Russia, and the
cream-coloured of England. Those stood out in the near half-circle, and beyond
was the sweep of the lesser powers: Greece, Norway, Sweden, Roumania and the
Balkan States. One, the Turk, was alone wanting, he reminded himself. The
emblems of some were visible - eagles, lions, leopards - guarding the royal
crown above the roof of each. From the foot of the steps to the head ran a
broad scarlet carpet, lined with soldiers.
Percy leaned
against the shutter, and began to meditate. Here was all that was left of
Royalty. He had seen their palaces before, here and there in the various
quarters, with standards flying, and scarlet-liveried men lounging on the
steps. He had raised his hat a dozen times as a landau thundered past him up
the Course; he had even seen the lilies of France and the leopards of England
pass together in the solemn parade of the Pincian Hill. He had read in the
papers every now and again during the last five years that family after family
had made its way to Rome, after papal recognition had been granted; he had been
told by the Cardinal on the previous evening that William of England, with his
Consort, had landed at Ostia in the morning and that the tale of the Powers was
complete. But he had never before realised the stupendous, overwhelming fact of
the assembly of the world's royalty under the shadow of Peter's Throne, nor the
appalling danger that its presence constituted in the midst of a democratic
world. That world, he knew, affected to laugh at the folly and the childishness
of it all - at the desperate play-acting of Divine Right on the part of fallen
and despised families; but the same world, he knew very well, had not yet lost
quite all its sentiment; and if that sentiment should happen to become
resentful -
The pressure
relaxed; Percy slipped out of the recess, and followed in the slow-moving
stream.
Half-an-hour
later he was in his place among the ecclesiastics, as the papal procession came
out through the glimmering dusk of the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament into the
nave of the enormous church; but even before he had entered the chapel he heard
the quiet roar of recognition and the cry of the trumpets that greeted the
Supreme Pontiff as he came out, a hundred yards ahead, borne on the sedia
gestatoria, with the fans going behind him. When Percy himself came out, five
minutes later, walking in his quaternion, and saw the sight that was waiting,
he remembered with a sudden throb at his heart that other sight he had seen in
London in a summer dawn three months before…
Far ahead,
seeming to cleave its way through the surging heads, like the poop of an
ancient ship, moved the canopy beneath which sat the Lord of the world, and
between him and the priest, as if it were the wake of that same ship, swayed
the gorgeous procession - Protonotaries Apostolic, Generals of Religious Orders
and the rest - making its way along with white, gold, scarlet and silver foam
between the living banks on either side. Overhead hung the splendid barrel of
the roof, and far in front the haven of God's altar reared its monstrous
pillars, beneath which burned the seven yellow stars that were the harbour
lights of sanctity. It was an astonishing sight, but too vast and bewildering
to do anything but oppress the observers with a consciousness of their own
futility. The enormous enclosed air, the giant statues, the dim and distant
roofs, the indescribable concert of sound - of the movement of feet, the murmur
of ten thousand voices, the peal of organs like the crying of gnats, the thin
celestial music - the faint suggestive smell of incense and men and bruised bay
and myrtle - and, supreme above all, the vibrant atmosphere of human emotion,
shot with supernatural aspiration, as the Hope of the World, the holder of
Divine Vice-Royalty, passed on his way to stand between God and man - this
affected the priest as the action of a drug that at once lulls and stimulates,
that blinds while it gives new vision, that deafens while it opens stopped
ears, that exalts while it plunges into new gulfs of consciousness. Here, then,
was the other formulated answer to the problem of life. The two Cities of
Augustine lay for him to choose. The one was that of a world self-originated,
self-organised and self-sufficient, interpreted by such men as Marx and Herve,
socialists, materialists, and, in the end, hedonists, summed up at last in
Felsenburgh. The other lay displayed in the sight he saw before him, telling of
a Creator and of a creation, of a Divine purpose, a redemption, and a world
transcendent and eternal from which all sprang and to which all moved. One of
the two, John and Julian, was the Vicar, and the other the Ape, of God… And
Percy's heart in one more spasm of conviction made its choice…
But the summit
was not yet reached.
As Percy came at
last out from the nave beneath the dome, on his way to the tribune beyond the
papal throne, he became aware of a new element.
A great space was
cleared about the altar and confession, extending, as he could see at least on
his side, to the point that marked the entrance to the transepts; at this point
ran rails straight across from side to side, continuing the lines of the nave.
Beyond this red-hung barrier lay a gradual slope of faces, white and
motionless; a glimmer of steel bounded it, and above, a third of the distance
down the transept, rose in solemn serried array a line of canopies. These were
of scarlet, like cardinalitial baldachini, but upon the upright surface of each
burned gigantic coats supported by beasts and topped by crowns. Under each was
a figure or two - no more - in splendid isolation, and through the interspaces
between the thrones showed again a misty slope of faces.
His heart
quickened as he saw it - as he swept his eyes round and across to the right and
saw as in a mirror the replica of the left in the right transept. It was there
then that they sat - those lonely survivors of that strange company of persons
who, till half-a-century ago, had reigned as God's temporal Vicegerents with
the consent of their subjects. They were unrecognised, now, save by Him from
whom they drew their sovereignty - pinnacles clustering and hanging from a
dome, from which the walls had been withdrawn. These were men and women who had
learned at last that power comes from above, and their title to rule came not
from their subjects but from the Supreme Ruler of all - shepherds without
sheep, captains without soldiers to command. It was piteous - horribly piteous,
yet inspiring. The act of faith was so sublime; and Percy's heart quickened as
he understood it. These, then, men and women like himself, were not ashamed to
appeal from man to God, to assume insignia which the world regarded as
playthings, but which to them were emblems of supernatural commission. Was
there not mirrored here, he asked himself, some far-off shadow of One Who rode
on the colt of an ass amid the sneers of the great and the enthusiasm of
children?…
* * * * *
It was yet more kindling as the mass went on, and
he saw the male sovereigns come down to do their services at the altar, and to
go to and fro between it and the Throne. There they went bareheaded, the
stately silent figures. The English king, once again Fidei Defensor, bore the
train in place of the old king of Spain, who, with the Austrian Emperor, alone
of all European sovereigns, had preserved the unbroken continuity of faith. The
old man leaned over his fald-stool, mumbling and weeping, even crying out now
and again in love and devotion, as, like Simeon, he saw his Salvation. The
Austrian Emperor twice administered the Lavabo; the German sovereign, who had
lost his throne and all but his life upon his conversion four years before, by
a new privilege placed and withdrew the cushion, as his Lord kneeled before the
Lord of them both. So movement by movement the gorgeous drama was enacted; the
murmuring of the crowds died to a stillness that was but one wordless prayer as
the tiny White Disc rose between the white hands, and the thin angelic music
pealed in the dome. For here was the one hope of these thousands, as mighty and
as little as once within the Manger. There was none other that fought for them
but only God. Surely then, if the blood of men and the tears of women could not
avail to move the Judge and Observer of all from His silence, surely at least
here the bloodless Death of His only Son, that once on Calvary had darkened
heaven and rent the earth, pleaded now with such sorrowful splendour upon this
island of faith amid a sea of laughter and hatred—this at least must avail! How
could it not?
* * * * *
Percy had just sat down, tired out with the long
ceremonies, when the door opened abruptly, and the Cardinal, still in his
robes, came in swiftly, shutting the door behind him.
"Father
Franklin," he said, in a strange breathless voice, "there is the
worst of news. Felsenburgh is appointed President of Europe."
II
It was late that night before Percy returned,
completely exhausted by his labours. For hour after hour he had sat with the
Cardinal, opening despatches that poured into the electric receivers from all
over Europe, and were brought in one by one into the quiet sitting-room. Three
times in the afternoon the Cardinal had been sent for, once by the Pope and
twice to the Quirinal.
There was no
doubt at all that the news was true; and it seemed that Felsenburgh must have
waited deliberately for the offer. All others he had refused. There had been a
Convention of the Powers, each of whom had been anxious to secure him, and each
of whom had severally failed; these private claims had been withdrawn, and an united
message sent. The new proposal was to the effect that Felsenburgh should assume
a position hitherto undreamed of in democracy; that he should receive a House
of Government in every capital of Europe; that his veto of any measure should
be final for three years; that any measure he chose to introduce three times in
three consecutive years should become law; that his title should be that of
President of Europe. From his side practically nothing was asked, except that
he should refuse any other official position offered him that did not receive
the sanction of all the Powers. And all this, Percy saw very well, involved the
danger of an united Europe increased tenfold. It involved all the stupendous
force of Socialism directed by a brilliant individual. It was the combination
of the strongest characteristics of the two methods of government. The offer
had been accepted by Felsenburgh after eight hours' silence.
It was
remarkable, too, to observe how the news had been accepted by the two other
divisions of the world. The East was enthusiastic; America was divided. But in
any case America was powerless: the balance of the world was overwhelmingly
against her.
Percy threw
himself, as he was, on to his bed, and lay there with drumming pulses, closed
eyes and a huge despair at his heart. The world indeed had risen like a giant
over the horizons of Rome, and the holy city was no better now than a sand
castle before a tide. So much he grasped. As to how ruin would come, in what
form and from what direction, he neither knew nor cared. Only he knew now that
it would come.
He had learned by
now something of his own temperament; and he turned his eyes inwards to observe
himself bitterly, as a doctor in mortal disease might with a dreadful
complacency diagnose his own symptoms. It was even a relief to turn from the
monstrous mechanism of the world to see in miniature one hopeless human heart.
For his own religion he no longer feared; he knew, as absolutely as a man may
know the colour of his eyes, that it was secure again and beyond shaking.
During those weeks in Rome the cloudy deposit had run clear and the channel was
once more visible. Or, better still, that vast erection of dogma, ceremony,
custom and morals in which he had been educated, and on which he had looked all
his life (as a man may stare upon some great set-piece that bewilders him),
seeing now one spark of light, now another, flare and wane in the darkness, had
little by little kindled and revealed itself in one stupendous blaze of divine
fire that explains itself. Huge principles, once bewildering and even
repellent, were again luminously self-evident; he saw, for example, that while
Humanity-Religion endeavoured to abolish suffering the Divine Religion embraced
it, so that the blind pangs even of beasts were within the Father's Will and
Scheme; or that while from one angle one colour only of the web of life was
visible - material, or intellectual, or artistic - from another the
Supernatural was as eminently obvious. Humanity-Religion could only be true if
at least half of man's nature, aspirations and sorrows were ignored.
Christianity, on the other hand, at least included and accounted for these,
even if it did not explain them. This… and this… and this… all made the one and
perfect whole. There was the Catholic Faith, more certain to him than the
existence of himself: it was true and alive. He might be damned, but God
reigned. He might go mad, but Jesus Christ was Incarnate Deity, proving Himself
so by death and Resurrection, and John his Vicar. These things were as the
bones of the Universe - facts beyond doubting - if they were not true, nothing
anywhere was anything but a dream.
Difficulties? - Why,
there were ten thousand. He did not in the least understand why God had made
the world as it was, nor how Hell could be the creation of Love, nor how bread
was transubstantiated into the Body of God but - well, these things were so. He
had travelled far, he began to see, from his old status of faith, when he had
believed that divine truth could be demonstrated on intellectual grounds. He
had learned now (he knew not how) that the supernatural cried to the
supernatural; the Christ without to the Christ within; that pure human reason
indeed could not contradict, yet neither could it adequately prove the
mysteries of faith, except on premisses visible only to him who receives
Revelation as a fact; that it is the moral state, rather than the intellectual,
to which the Spirit of God speaks with the greater certitude. That which he had
both learned and taught he now knew, that Faith, having, like man himself, a
body and a spirit - an historical expression and an inner verity - speaks now
by one, now by another. This man believes because he sees - accepts the
Incarnation or the Church from its credentials; that man, perceiving that these
things are spiritual facts, yields himself wholly to the message and authority
of her who alone professes them, as well as to the manifestation of them upon
the historical plane; and in the darkness leans upon her arm. Or, best of all,
because he has believed, now he sees.
So he looked with
a kind of interested indolence at other tracts of his nature.
First, there was
his intellect, puzzled beyond description, demanding, Why, why, why? Why was it
allowed? How was it conceivable that God did not intervene, and that the Father
of men could permit His dear world to be so ranged against Him? What did He
mean to do? Was this eternal silence never to be broken? It was very well for
those that had the Faith, but what of the countless millions who were settling
down in contented blasphemy? Were these not, too, His children and the sheep of
His pasture? What was the Catholic Church made for if not to convert the world,
and why then had Almighty God allowed it, on the one side, to dwindle to a handful,
and, on the other, the world to find its peace apart from Him?
He considered his
emotions, but there was no comfort there, no stimulus. Oh! yes; he could pray
still, by mere cold acts of the will, and his theology told him that God
accepted such. He could say "Adveniat regnum tuum… Fiat voluntas
tua," five thousand times a day, if God wanted that; but there was no
sting or touch, no sense of vibration through the cords that his will threw up
to the Heavenly Throne. What in the world then did God want him to do? Was it
just then to repeat formulas, to lie still, to open despatches, to listen
through the telephone, and to suffer?
And then the rest
of the world - the madness that had seized upon the nations; the amazing
stories that had poured in that day of the men in Paris, who, raving like
Bacchantes, had stripped themselves naked in the Place de Concorde, and stabbed
themselves to the heart, crying out to thunders of applause that life was too
enthralling to be endured; of the woman who sang herself mad last night in
Spain, and fell laughing and foaming in the concert hall at Seville; of the
crucifixion of the Catholics that morning in the Pyrenees, and the apostasy of
three bishops in Germany… And this… and this… and a thousand more horrors were
permitted, and God made no sign and spoke no word…
There was a tap,
and Percy sprang up as the Cardinal came in.
He looked
horribly worn; and his eyes had a kind of sunken brilliance that revealed
fever. He made a little motion to Percy to sit down, and himself sat in the
deep chair, trembling a little, and gathering his buckled feet beneath his
red-buttoned cassock.
"You must
forgive me, father," he said. "I am anxious for the Bishop's safety.
He should be here by now."
This was the
Bishop of Southwark, Percy remembered, who had left England early that morning.
"He is
coming straight through, your Eminence?"
"Yes; he
should have been here by twenty-three. It is after midnight, is it not?"
As he spoke, the
bells chimed out the half-hour.
It was nearly quiet
now. All day the air had been full of sound; mobs had paraded the suburbs; the
gates of the City had been barred, yet that was only an earnest of what was to
be expected when the world understood itself.
The Cardinal
seemed to recover himself after a few minutes' silence.
"You look
tired out, father," he said kindly.
Percy smiled.
"And your
Eminence?" he said.
The old man
smiled too.
"Why,
yes," he said. "I shall not last much longer, father. And then it
will be you to suffer."
Percy sat up, suddenly,
sick at heart.
"Why,
yes," said the Cardinal. "The Holy Father has arranged it. You are to
succeed me, you know. It need be no secret."
Percy drew a long
trembling breath.
"Eminence,"
he began piteously.
The other lifted
a thin old hand.
"I understand
all that," he said softly. "You wish to die, is it not so? - and be
at peace. There are many who wish that. But we must suffer first. Et pati et
mori. Father Franklin, there must be no faltering."
There was a long
silence.
The news was too
stunning to convey anything to the priest but a sense of horrible shock. The
thought had simply never entered his mind that he, a man under forty, should be
considered eligible to succeed this wise, patient old prelate. As for the
honour - Percy was past that now, even had he thought of it. There was but one
view before him - of a long and intolerable journey, on a road that went
uphill, to be traversed with a burden on his shoulders that he could not
support.
Yet he recognised
its inevitability. The fact was announced to him as indisputable; it was to be;
there was nothing to be said. But it was as if one more gulf had opened, and he
stared into it with a dull, sick horror, incapable of expression.
The Cardinal
first broke the silence.
"Father
Franklin," he said, "I have seen to-day a picture of
Felsenburgh. Do you know whom I at first took it for?"
Percy smiled
listlessly.
"Yes,
father, I took it for you. Now, what do you make of that?"
"I don't
understand, Eminence."
"Why -"
He broke off, suddenly changing the subject.
"There was a
murder in the City to-day," he said. "A Catholic stabbed a
blasphemer."
Percy glanced at
him again.
"Oh! yes; he
has not attempted to escape," went on the old man. "He is in
gaol."
"And -"
"He will be
executed. The trial will begin to-morrow… It is sad enough. It is the first
murder for eight months."
The irony of the
position was evident enough to Percy as he sat listening to the deepening
silence outside in the starlit night. Here was this poor city pretending that
nothing was the matter, quietly administering its derided justice; and there,
outside, were the forces gathering that would put an end to all. His enthusiasm
seemed dead. There was no thrill from the thought of the splendid disregard of
material facts of which this was one tiny instance, none of despairing courage
or drunken recklessness. He felt like one who watches a fly washing his face on
the cylinder of an engine - the huge steel slides along bearing the tiny life
towards enormous death - another moment and it will be over; and yet the
watcher cannot interfere. The supernatural thus lay, perfect and alive, but
immeasurably tiny; the huge forces were in motion, the world was heaving up,
and Percy could do nothing but stare and frown. Yet, as has been said, there
was no shadow on his faith; the fly he knew was greater than the engine from
the superiority of its order of life; if it were crushed, life would not be the
final sufferer; so much he knew, but how it was so, he did not know.
As the two sat
there, again came a step and a tap; and a servant's face looked in.
"His
Lordship is come, Eminence," he said.
The Cardinal rose
painfully, supporting himself by the table. Then he paused, seeming to remember
something, and fumbled in his pocket.
"See that,
father," he said, and pushed a small silver disc towards the priest.
"No; when I am gone."
Percy closed the
door and came back, taking up the little round object.
It was a coin,
fresh from the mint. On one side was the familiar wreath with the word
"fivepence" in the midst, with its Esperanto equivalent beneath, and
on the other the profile of a man, with an inscription. Percy turned it to
read:
"JULIAN
FELSENBURGH, LA PREZIDANTE DE UROPO."
III
It was at ten
o'clock on the following morning that the Cardinals were summoned to the Pope's
presence to hear the allocution.
Percy, from his
seat among the Consultors, watched them come in, men of every nation and
temperament and age - the Italians all together, gesticulating, and flashing
teeth; the Anglo-Saxons steady-faced and serious; an old French Cardinal
leaning on his stick, walking with the English Benedictine. It was one of the
great plain stately rooms of which the Vatican now chiefly consisted, seated
length wise like a chapel. At the lower end, traversed by the gangway, were the
seats of the Consultors; at the upper end, the dais with the papal throne.
Three or four benches with desks before them, standing out beyond the
Consultors' seats, were reserved for the arrivals of the day before - prelates
and priests who had poured into Rome from every European country on the
announcement of the amazing news.
Percy had not an
idea as to what would be said. It was scarcely possible that nothing but
platitudes would be uttered, yet what else could be said in view of the complete
doubtfulness of the situation? All that was known even this morning was that
the Presidentship of Europe was a fact; the little silver coin he had seen
witnessed to that; that there had been an outburst of persecution, repressed
sternly by local authorities; and that Felsenburgh was to-day to begin his tour
from capital to capital. He was expected in Turin by the end of the week. From
every Catholic centre throughout the world had come in messages imploring
guidance; it was said that apostasy was rising like a tidal wave, that
persecution threatened everywhere, and that even bishops were beginning to
yield.
As for the Holy
Father, all was doubtful. Those who knew, said nothing; and the only rumour
that escaped was to the effect that he had spent all night in prayer at the
tomb of the Apostle…
The murmur died
suddenly to a rustle and a silence; there was a ripple of sinking heads along
the seats as the door beside the canopy opened, and a moment later John, Pater
Patrum, was on his throne.
* * * * *
At first Percy understood nothing. He stared only,
as at a picture, through the dusty sunlight that poured in through the shrouded
windows, at the scarlet lines to right and left, up to the huge scarlet canopy,
and the white figure that sat there. Certainly, these southerners understood
the power of effect. It was as vivid and impressive as a vision of the Host in
a jewelled monstrance. Every accessory was gorgeous, the high room, the colour
of the robes, the chains and crosses, and as the eye moved along to its climax
it was met by a piece of dead white - as if glory was exhausted and declared
itself impotent to tell the supreme secret. Scarlet and purple and gold were
well enough for those who stood on the steps of the throne - they needed it;
but for Him who sat there nothing was needed. Let colours die and sounds faint
in the presence of God's Viceroy. Yet what expression was required found itself
adequately provided in that beautiful oval face, the poised imperious head, the
sweet brilliant eyes and the clean-curved lips that spoke so strongly. There
was not a sound in the room, not a rustle, nor a breathing - even without it
seemed as if the world were allowing the supernatural to state its defence
uninterruptedly, before summing up and clamouring condemnation.
* * * * *
Percy made a violent effort at self-repression,
clenched his hands and listened.
"…Since this
then is so, sons in Jesus Christ, it is for us to answer. We wrestle not, as
the Doctor of the Gentiles teaches us, against flesh and blood, but against
principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness,
against the spirits of wickedness in the high places. Wherefore, he continues,
take unto you the armour of God; and he further declares to us its nature - the
girdle of truth, the breastplate of justice, the shoes of peace, the shield of
faith, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit.
"By this,
therefore, the Word of God bids us to war, but not with the weapons of this
world, for neither is His kingdom of this world; and it is to remind you of the
principles of this warfare that we have summoned you to Our Presence."
The voice paused,
and there was a rustling sigh along the seats. Then the voice continued on a
slightly higher note.
"It has ever
been the wisdom of Our predecessors, as is also their duty, while keeping
silence at certain seasons, at others to speak freely the whole counsel of God.
From this duty We Ourself must not be deterred by the knowledge of Our own
weakness and ignorance, but to trust rather that He Who has placed Us on this
throne will deign to speak through Our mouth and use Our words to His glory.
"First,
then, it is necessary to utter Our sentence as to the new movement, as men call
it, which has latterly been inaugurated by the rulers of this world.
"We are not
unmindful of the blessings of peace and unity, nor do We forget that the
appearance of these things has been the fruit of much that we have condemned.
It is this appearance of peace that has deceived many, causing them to doubt
the promise of the Prince of Peace that it is through Him alone that we have
access to the Father. That true peace, passing understanding, concerns not only
the relations of men between themselves, but, supremely, the relations of men
with their Maker; and it is in this necessary point that the efforts of the
world are found wanting. It is not indeed to be wondered at that in a world
which has rejected God this necessary matter should be forgotten. Men have
thought - led astray by seducers - that the unity of nations was the greatest
prize of this life, forgetting the words of our Saviour, Who said that He came
to bring not peace but a sword, and that it is through many tribulations that
we enter God's Kingdom. First, then, there should be established the peace of man
with God, and after that the unity of man with man will follow. Seek ye first,
said Jesus Christ, the kingdom of God - and then all these things shall be
added unto you.
"First,
then, We once more condemn and anathematise the opinions of those who teach and
believe the contrary of this; and we renew once more all the condemnations
uttered by Ourself or Our predecessors against all those societies,
organisations and communities that have been formed for the furtherance of an
unity on another than a divine foundation; and We remind Our children
throughout the world that it is forbidden to them to enter or to aid or to
approve in any manner whatsoever any of those bodies named in such
condemnations."
Percy moved in
his seat, conscious of a touch of impatience… The manner was superb, tranquil
and stately as a river; but the matter a trifle banal. Here was this old
reprobation of Freemasonry, repeated in unoriginal language.
"Secondly,"
went on the steady voice, "We wish to make known to you Our desires for the
future; and here We tread on what many have considered dangerous ground."
Again came that
rustle. Percy saw more than one cardinal lean forward with hand crooked at ear
to hear the better. It was evident that something important was coming.
"There are many
points," went on the high voice, "of which it is not Our intention to
speak at this time, for of their own nature they are secret, and must be
treated of on another occasion. But what We say here, We say to the world.
Since the assaults of Our enemies are both open and secret, so too must be Our
defences. This then is Our intention."
The Pope paused
again, lifted one hand as if mechanically to his breast, and grasped the cross
that hung there.
"While the
army of Christ is one, it consists of many divisions, each of which has its
proper function and object. In times past God has raised up companies of His
servants to do this or that particular work - the sons of St. Francis to preach
poverty, those of St. Bernard to labour in prayer with all holy women dedicating
themselves to this purpose, the Society of Jesus for the education of youth and
the conversion of the heathen - together with all the other Religious Orders
whose names are known throughout the world. Each such company was raised up at
a particular season of need, and each has corresponded nobly with the divine
vocation. It has also been the especial glory of each, for the furtherance of
its intention, while pursuing its end, to cut off from itself all such
activities (good in themselves) which would hinder that work for which God had
called it into being - following in this matter the words of our Redeemer,
Every branch that beareth fruit, He purgeth it that it may bring forth more
fruit. At this present season, then, it appears to Our Humility that all such
Orders (which once more We commend and bless) are not perfectly suited by the
very conditions of their respective Rules to perform the great work which the
time requires. Our warfare lies not with ignorance in particular, whether of
the heathens to whom the Gospel has not yet come, or of those whose fathers
have rejected it, nor with the deceitful riches of this world, nor with science
falsely so-called, nor indeed with any one of those strongholds of infidelity
against whom We have laboured in the past. Rather it appears as if at last the
time was come of which the apostle spoke when he said that that day shall not
come, except there come a falling away first, and that Man of Sin be revealed,
the Son of Perdition, who opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is
called God.
"It is not
with this or that force that we are concerned, but rather with the unveiled
immensity of that power whose time was foretold, and whose destruction is
prepared."
The voice paused
again, and Percy gripped the rail before him to stay the trembling of his
hands. There was no rustle now, nothing but a silence that tingled and shook.
The Pope drew a long breath, turned his head slowly to right and left, and went
on more deliberately than ever.
"It seems
good, then, to Our Humility, that the Vicar of Christ should himself invite
God's children to this new warfare; and it is Our intention to enroll under the
title of the Order of Christ Crucified the names of all who offer themselves to
this supreme service. In doing this We are aware of the novelty of Our action,
and the disregard of all such precautions as have been necessary in the past.
We take counsel in this matter with none save Him Who we believe has inspired
it.
"First,
then, let Us say, that although obedient service will be required from all who
shall be admitted to this Order, Our primary intention in instituting it lies
in God's regard rather than in man's, in appealing to Him Who asks our
generosity rather than to those who deny it, and dedicating once more by a
formal and deliberate act our souls and bodies to the heavenly Will and service
of Him Who alone can rightly claim such offering, and will accept our poverty.
"Briefly, we
dictate only the following conditions.
"None shall
be capable of entering the Order except such as shall be above the age of
seventeen years.
"No badge,
habit, nor insignia shall be attached to it.
"The Three
Evangelical Counsels shall be the foundation of the Rule, to which we add a
fourth intention, namely, that of a desire to receive the crown of martyrdom
and a purpose of embracing it.
"The bishop
of every diocese, if he himself shall enter the Order, shall be the superior
within the limits of his own jurisdiction, and alone shall be exempt from the
literal observance of the Vow of Poverty so long as he retains his see. Such
bishops as do not feel the vocation to the Order shall retain their sees under
the usual conditions, but shall have no Religious claim on the members of the
Order.
"Further, We
announce Our intention of Ourself entering the Order as its supreme prelate,
and of making Our profession within the course of a few days.
"Further, We
declare that in Our Own pontificate none shall be elevated to the Sacred
College save those who have made their profession in the Order; and We shall
dedicate shortly the Basilica of St. Peter and St. Paul as the central church
of the Order, in which church We shall raise to the altars without any delay
those happy souls who shall lay down their lives in the pursuance of their
vocation.
"Of that
vocation it is unnecessary to speak beyond indicating that it may be pursued
under any conditions laid down by the Superiors. As regards the novitiate, its
conditions and requirements, we shall shortly issue the necessary directions.
Each diocesan superior (for it is Our hope that none will hold back) shall have
all such rights as usually appertain to Religious Superiors, and shall be
empowered to employ his subjects in any work that, in his opinion, shall
subserve the glory of God and the salvation of souls. It is Our Own intention
to employ in Our service none except those who shall make their
profession."
He raised his
eyes once more, seemingly without emotion, then he continued:
"So far,
then, We have determined. On other matters We shall take counsel immediately;
but it is Our wish that these words shall be communicated to all the world,
that there may be no delay in making known what it is that Christ through His
Vicar asks of all who profess the Divine Name. We offer no rewards except those
which God Himself has promised to those that love Him, and lay down their life
for Him; no promise of peace, save of that which passeth understanding; no home
save that which befits pilgrims and sojourners who seek a City to come; no
honour save the world's contempt; no life, save that which is hid with Christ
in God."
