Chapter XX: Part SEVEN: The Pope (4)

When Cortis came with the Pope's breakfast in the frayed edge of the morning, the chamberlain outside the bedroom door whispered to the valet, "The Holy Father has been with the angels all night long."

There was a Papal "Chapel" in St. Peter's that morning, with a procession of white vestments in honour of the Mass of the Resurrection, but the Pope did not attend. He sat alone in his simple chamber, with curtains drawn across the marble columns to obscure the bed, fingering the crucifix which hung from his neck, and waiting for the ringing of the Easter bells.

The little door to the private corridor opened quietly, and Father Pifferi entered the room.

"Well?" said the Pope.

"It is all over," said the Capuchin.

"Did the poor child ... did she bear up bravely?"

"Very bravely, your Holiness."

"No weakness, no hysteria? She did not faint or break down at the end?"

"On the contrary, she was composed--perfectly composed and quiet."

"Thank God!"

"It was most extraordinary. A woman denouncing her husband, and yet so calm, so terribly calm."

"God helped her to bear her burden. God help all of us in our hour of need!"

The Pope lifted the crucifix to his lips, and added, "And the man?"

"Rossi?"

"Yes."

"After she had signed the denunciation a warrant for his arrest was made out and given to the Carabineers."

"It mentioned everything?"

"Everything."

"Who he is and all about him?"

"Yes, your Holiness."

The Pope fingered his crucifix again, and said, "Who is he, Father Pifferi?"

The Capuchin did not reply.

"Father Pifferi, I ask you who he is?"

Still the Capuchin did not reply, and the Pope smiled a pitiful smile, touched the friar's arm with a caressing gesture, and said, "Don't be afraid for the Holy Father, carissimo. If that poor child, who would have died rather than sacrifice her husband, could be so calm and strong...."

"Holy Father," said the Capuchin, "when you asked the lady to denounce David Rossi you thought of him only as an enemy of the Church and of its head, trying to pull down both and destroy civil society--isn't that so?"

The Pope bent his head.

"Holy Father, if ... if you had known that he was something more than that ... something nearer ... if, for example, you had been told that ... that he was the relative of a priest, would you have asked for his denunciation just the same?"

The old Capuchin had stammered, but the Pope answered in a firm voice, "That would have made no difference, my son. The blessed Scriptures do not conceal the sin of Judas, and shall we conceal the offences of those who come within the circle of our own families?"

"Holy Father," said the Capuchin, "if you had been told that he was related to a prelate of your domestic household...."

He stopped, and the Pope answered in a voice that trembled slightly, "Still it would have made no difference. The enemies of the Almighty are watching day and night, and shall His holy Church be imperilled and abased by the weakness of His servant?"

"Holy Father, if ... if you had been told that ... that he was the kinsman of a Cardinal?"

The Pope was struggling to control himself. "Even then it would have made no difference. I am old and weak, but God would have supported me, and though I had been called upon to cut off my right hand, or give my body to be burned, still...."

His voice quivered and died in his throat, and there was a moment's pause.

"Holy Father," said the Capuchin, turning his eyes away, "if you had been told that he was the nearest of kin to the Pope himself...."

The Pope dropped the crucifix which was trembling in his hand, and half rose from his chair. "Then ... even then ... it would have ... but the will of God be done," he said, and he could not utter another word.

At that moment the Easter bells began to ring. The deep-toned bells of St. Peter's came first with its joyful peal, and then the bells of the other churches of the city took up the rapturous melody. In the Basilica the veil before the altar had been rent with a loud crash, and the Gloria in Excelsis was being sung.

At the same moment a prelate vested in a white tunic entered the Pope's room, and kneeling in the middle of the floor, he said, "Holy Father, I announce to you a great joy. Hallelujah! The Lord is risen again."

The Pope tried to rise from his seat, but could not do so. "Help me, Monsignor," he said faintly, and the prelate raised him to his feet. Then leaning on the prelate's arm, he walked to the door of his private chapel. On reaching it he looked back at Father Pifferi, who was going silently out of the room.

"Addio, carissimo," he said, in a pitiful voice, but the Capuchin could not reply.

Some moments afterwards the Pope was quite alone. The arched windows of the little chapel were covered with heavy red curtains, but the clanging of the brass tongues in the cupola, the deep throb of the organ, and the rolling waves of the voices of the people singing the grand Hallelujah, found their way into the darkened chamber. But above all other sounds in the ears of the Pope as he lay prostrate on the altar steps was the sound of a voice which said, "You, the Vicar of Jesus Christ; you, the rock on which the Saviour built His Church; you, the living voice of God; you, the infallible one; you, who fill the most exalted dignity on earth--_remember you are but clay_."

XXI

"Acqua Acetosa!" "Roba Vecchia!" "Rannocchie!"

The street cries were ringing through the Navona, the piazza was alive with people, and strangers were saluting each other as they passed on the pavement when Roma returned home. At the lodge the Garibaldian wished her a good Easter, and at the door of the apartment the curate of the parish, who in cotta and biretta was making his Easter call to sprinkle the rooms with holy water, gave her a smile and his blessing, while old Francesca, inside the house, laying the Easter sideboard of cakes, sausages, and eggs, put both hands behind her back, like a child playing a game, and cried--

"Now, what does the Signora think I've got for her?"

It was a letter, and as the old woman produced it she was glowing with happiness at the joy she was bringing to Roma.

"The porter from Trinità de' Monti brought it," she said, "and he told me to tell you there's a lay sister called Sister Angelica at the convent now, and he is afraid that other letters may go astray.... Aren't you glad you've got a letter, Signora? I thought Signora would die of delight, and I gave the man six soldi."

Roma was turning the envelope over and over in her hands, thinking what a call to joy a letter of Rossi's used to be, and wondering if she ought to open this one.

"Well, that was the way with me too when Tommaso was at the wars. But this is Easter, Signora, and the Blessed Virgin wouldn't bring you bad news to-day. Listen! That's the Gloria. I can always hear the church bells on Holy Saturday. The first time after I was deaf Joseph was a baby, and I took the wrappings off his little feet while the bells were ringing, and he walked straight away! Ah, my poor darling!... But I'm making the Signora cry."

The letter was dated from Zürich. It ran:--

"MY DEAR ROMA,--Your letters and I seem to be running a race which
shall return to you first. I was compelled to leave Berlin before
my long-delayed correspondence could arrive from London, and now
it seems probable that I must leave Zürich before it can follow me
from Berlin. As a consequence I have not heard from you for
weeks--not since your letter about your friend, you remember--and
I am in agonies of impatience to know what has happened to you in
the interval.

"I came to Switzerland the day before yesterday, pushed on by the
urgency of affairs at home. Here we hold the last meeting of our
international committee before I go back to Italy. This will be
to-morrow (Friday) night, and according to present plans I set out
for Rome on Saturday morning.

"How different my return will be from my flight a few weeks ago!
Then I was plunged in despair, now I am buoyed up with hope; then
my soul was furrowed by doubts, now it is braced up with
certainties; then my idea was a dream, now it is a practical
reality.

"O Roma, my Roma, it is a good thing to live. After all, the world
is no Gethsemane, and when a man has a beautiful life like yours
belonging to him he may be forgiven if he forgets the voices which
assail him with fears. They have come to me sometimes, dearest, in
this long and cruel silence, and I have asked myself hideous
questions. What is happening to my dear one in the midst of my
enemies? What sufferings are being inflicted upon her for my sake?
She is brave, and will bear anything, but did I do right to leave
her behind? Bruno died rather than betray me, and she will do
more--infinitely more in her eyes--she will see _me_ die, rather
than imperil a cause which is a thousand times more dear to me
than my life.

"Addio, carissima! Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal
upon thine arm, for love is strong as death. If there were any
possibility of our love increasing it _would_ increase after going
through dangers like these. Keep well, dearest. Preserve that
sweet life which is so precious to me that I cannot live without
it. Do you remember, it was the 2nd of February when we parted in
the darkness at the church door, and now it is Easter, and the day
after to-morrow we shall hear the Easter bells! Spring is here,
and in the unchangeable changeableness of nature I see the
resurrection of humanity and listen to the Gloria of God.

"You cannot answer this letter, dear, because I shall already be
on the way to Rome before it reaches you, but you can send me a
telegram to Chiasso. Do so. I shall look out for the telegraph boy
the moment the train stops at the station. Say you are well and
happy and waiting for me, and it will be like a smile from your
lovely lips and eyes on the frontier of my native land.

"My train is due to arrive on Sunday morning at seven o'clock.
Meet me at the railway station, and let your face be the first I
see when the train draws up in Rome. Then ... let me hear your
voice, and let my heart become a King.

"D.R."

Roma had grown paler and paler as she read this letter. The man's love and trust were crushing her. Tears filled her eyes and flooded her face. But her soul, which had been stunned and had fallen, recovered itself and arose.

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