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The Eternal City, a novel by Hall Caine |
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Part 1. The Holy Roman Empire - Chapter 6 |
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_ PART ONE. THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE CHAPTER VI A fanfare of trumpets came from the piazza, and with a cry of delight Roma ran into the balcony, followed by all the women and most of the men. "Only the signal that the cortege has started," said Don Camillo. "They'll be some minutes still." "Santo Dio!" cried Roma. "What a sight! It dazzles me; it makes me dizzy!" Her face beamed, her eyes danced, and she was all aglow from head to foot. The American Ambassador stood behind her, and, as permitted by his greater age, he tossed back the shuttlecock of her playful talk with chaff and laughter. "How patient the people are! See the little groups on camp-stools munching biscuits and reading the journals. 'La Vera Roma!'" (mimicking the cry of the newspaper sellers). "Look at that pretty girl--the fair one with the young man in the Homburg hat! She has climbed up the obelisk, and is inviting him to sit on an inch and a half of corbel beside her." "Ah, those who love take up little room!" "Don't they? What a lovely world it is! I'll tell you what this makes me think about--a wedding! Glorious morning, beautiful sunshine, flowers, wreaths, bridesmaids ready; coachman all a posy, only waiting for the bride!" "A wedding is what you women are always dreaming about--you begin dreaming about it in your cradles--it's in a woman's bones, I do believe," said the American. "Must be the ones she got from Adam, then," said Roma. Meantime the Baron was still parading the hearthrug inside and listening to the warnings of his Minister of War. "You are resolved to arrest the man?" "If he gives us an opportunity--yes." "You do not forget that he is a Deputy?" "It is because I remember it that my resolution is fixed. In Parliament he is a privileged person; let him make half as much disorder outside and you shall see where he will be." "Anarchists!" said Roma. "That group below the balcony? Is David Rossi among them? Yes? Which of them? Which? Which? Which? The tall man in the black hat with his back to us? Oh! why doesn't he turn his face? Should I shout?" "Roma!" from the little Princess. "I know; I'll faint, and you'll catch me, and the Princess will cry 'Madonna mia!' and then he'll turn round and look up." "My child!" "He'll see through you, though, and then where will you be?" "See through me, indeed!" and she laughed the laugh a man loves to hear, half-raillery, half-caress. "Donna Roma Volonna, daughter of a line of princes, making love to a nameless nobody!" "Shows what a heavenly character she is, then! See how good I am at throwing bouquets at myself?" "Well, what is love, anyway? A certain boy and a certain girl agree to go for a row in the same boat to the same place, and if they pull together, what does it matter where they come from?" "What, indeed?" she said, and a smile, partly serious, played about the parted mouth. "Could _you_ think like that?" "I could! I could! I could!" The clock struck eleven. Another fanfare of trumpets came from the direction of the Vatican, and then the confused noises in the square suddenly ceased and a broad "Ah!" passed over it, as of a vast living creature taking breath. "They're coming!" cried Roma. "Baron, the cortege is coming." "Presently," the Baron answered from within. Roma's dog, which had slept on a chair through the tumult, was awakened by the lull and began to bark. She picked it up, tucked it under her arm and ran back to the balcony, where she stood by the parapet, in full view of the people below, with the young Roman on one side, the American on the other, and the ladies seated around. By this time the procession had begun to appear, issuing from a bronze gate under the right arm of the colonnade, and passing down the channel which had been kept open by the cordon of infantry. Roma abandoned herself to the fascinations of the scene, and her gaiety infected everybody. "Camillo, you must tell me who they all are. There now--those men who come first in black and red?" "Laymen," said the young Roman. "They're called the Apostolic Cursori. When a Cardinal is nominated they take him the news, and get two or three thousand francs for their trouble." "And these little fat folk in white lace pinafores?" "Singers of the Sistine Chapel. That's the Director, old Maestro Mustafa--used to be the greatest soprano of the century." "And this dear old friar with the mittens and rosary and the comfortable linsey-woolsey sort of face?" "That's Father Pifferi of San Lorenzo, confessor to the Pope. He knows all the Pope's sins." "Oh!" said Roma. At that moment her dog barked furiously, and the old friar looked up at her, whereupon she smiled down on him, and then a half-smile played about his good-natured face. "He is a Capuchin, and those Frati in different colours coming behind him...." "I know them; see if I don't," she cried, as there passed under the balcony a double file of friars and monks. "The brown ones--Capuchins and Franciscans! Brown and white--Carmelites! Black--Augustinians and Benedictines! Black with a white cross--Passionists! And the monks all white are Trappists. I know the Trappists best, because I drive out to Tre Fontane to buy eucalyptus and flirt with Father John." "Shocking!" said the American. "Why not? What are their vows of celibacy but conspiracies against us poor women? Nearly every man a woman wants is either mated or has sworn off in some way. Oh, how I should love to meet one of those anchorites in real life and make him fly!" "Well, I dare say the whisk of a petticoat would be more frightening than all his doctors of divinity." "Listen!" From a part of the procession which had passed the balcony there came the sound of harmonious voices. "The singers of the Sistine Chapel! They're singing a hymn." "I know it. '_Veni, Creator!_' How splendid! How glorious! I feel as if I wanted to cry!" All at once the singing stopped, the murmuring and speaking of the crowd ceased too, and there was a breathless moment, such as comes before the first blast of a storm. A nervous quiver, like the shudder that passes over the earth at sundown, swept across the piazza, and the people stood motionless, every neck stretched, and every eye turned in the direction of the bronze gate, as if God were about to reveal Himself from the Holy of Holies. Then in that grand silence there came the clear call of silver trumpets, and at the next instant the Presence itself. "The Pope! Baron, the Pope!" The atmosphere was charged with electricity. A great roar of cheering went up from below like the roaring of surf, and it was followed by a clapping of hands like the running of the sea off a shingly beach after the boom of a tremendous breaker. An old man, dressed wholly in white, carried shoulder-high on a chair glittering with purple and crimson, and having a canopy of silver and gold above him. He wore a triple crown, which glistened in the sunlight, and but for the delicate white hand which he upraised to bless the people, he might have been mistaken for an image. His face was beautiful, and had a ray of beatified light on it--a face of marvellous sweetness and great spirituality. It was a thrilling moment, and Roma's excitement was intense. "There he is! All in white! He's on a gilded chair under the silken canopy! The canopy is held up by prelates, and the chairmen are in knee-breeches and red velvet. Look at the great waving plumes on either side!" "Peacock's feathers!" said a voice behind her, but she paid no heed. "Look at the acolytes swinging incense, and the golden cross coming before! What thunders of applause--I can hardly hear myself speak. It's like standing on a cliff while the sea below is running mountains high. No, it's like no other sound on earth; it's human--fifty thousand unloosed throats of men! That's the clapping of ladies--listen to the weak applause of their white-gloved fingers. Now they're waving their handkerchiefs. Look! Like the wings of ten thousand butterflies fluttering up from a meadow." Roma's abandonment was by this time complete; she was waving her handkerchief and crying "_Viva il Papa Re!_" "They're bearing him slowly along. He's coming this way. Look at the Noble Guard in their helmets and jackboots. And there are the Swiss Guard in Joseph's coat of many colours! We can see him plainly now. Do you smell the incense? It's like the ribbon of Bruges. The pluviale? That gold vestment? It's studded on his breast with precious stones. How they blaze in the sunshine! He is blessing the people, and they are falling on their knees before him." "Like the grass before the scythe!" "How tired he looks! How white his face is! No, not white--ivory! No, marble--Carrara marble! He might be Lazarus who was dead and has come back from the tomb! No humanity left in him! A saint! An angel!" "The spiritual autocrat of the world!" "_Viva il Papa Re!_ He's going by! _Viva il Papa Re!_ He has gone.... Well!" She was rising from her knees and wiping her eyes, trying to cover up with laughter the confusion of her rapture. "What is that?" There was a sound of voices in the distance chanting dolorously. "The cantors intoning _Tu es Petrus_," said Don Camillo. "No, I mean the commotion down there. Somebody is pushing through the Guard." "It's David Rossi," said the American. "Is that David Rossi? Oh, dear me! I had forgotten all about him." She moved forward to see his face. "Why ... where have I ... I've seen him before somewhere." A strange physical sensation tingled all over her at that moment, and she shuddered as if with sudden cold. "What's amiss?" "Nothing! But I like him. Do you know, I really like him." "Women are funny things," said the American. "They're nice, though, aren't they?" And two rows of pearly teeth between parted lips gleamed up at him with gay raillery. Again she craned forward. "He is on his knees to the Pope! Now he'll present the petition. No ... yes ... the brutes! They're dragging him away! The procession is going on! Disgraceful!" "Long live the Workmen's Pope!" came up from the piazza, and under the shrill shouts of the pilgrims were heard the monotonous voices of the monks as they passed through the open doors of the Basilica intoning the praises of God. "They're lifting him on to a car," said the American. "David Rossi?" "Yes; he is going to speak." "How delightful! Shall we hear him? Good! How glad I am that I came! He is facing this way! Oh, yes; those are his own people with the banners! Baron, the Holy Father has gone on to St. Peter's, and David Rossi is going to speak." "Hush!" A quivering, vibrating voice came up from below, and in a moment there was a dead silence. _ |
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