‘Ah, but there are no forestieri in the case of St. Peter’s; it belongs to all nations.’
Marcia smiled at the young man and turned away; and as she turned she caught, across an intervening stream of heads, a face, looking in her direction, wearing about the eyes a curiously quizzical expression. It was the face of a middle-aged woman—an interesting face—not exactly beautiful, but sparkling with intelligence. It seemed very familiar to Marcia, and as her eyes lingered on it a moment the quizzical expression gave place to one of amused friendliness. The woman smiled and bowed and passed on. Marcia bowed vaguely, and then it flashed through her mind who it was—the lady who wrote, the ‘greatest gossip in Rome,’ whom she had met at the studio tea so many weeks before. She had forgotten all about her unknown friend of that day, and now she turned quickly to Paul to ask her identity. Paul was engaged in answering some question of his aunt’s, and before she could gain his attention again a hush swept over the great interior and everything else was forgotten in the opening chorus of the ‘Miserere.’
The twilight had deepened, and the great white dome shone dimly far above the blackness of the crowd. The voices of the papal choir swelled louder and louder in the solemn chant, and high and separate and alone rose the clear, flute-like treble of the ‘Pope’s Nightingale.’ And as an undertone, an accompaniment to the music, the shuffle and murmur of thirty thousand listeners rose and fell like the distant beat of surf.
The candles on the altar showed dimly above their heads. As the service continued, one by one the lights were extinguished. After half an hour or so, the waiting and intensity grew wearing. The crowd was pressing closer, and Margaret Royston craned her neck, vainly trying to discover how many candles remained. Paul, with ready imagination, was answering his aunt’s questions as to the meaning of the ceremonies. Margaret turned to Marcia.
‘Poke this young priest in front of me,’ she whispered, and ask him in Italian how many candles are left.’
The young priest, overhearing the words, turned around with an amused smile, obligingly stood on his tiptoes to look at the altar, and replied in English that there were three.
‘Thank you,’ said Margaret; ‘I didn’t suppose you could talk English.’
‘I was born in Troy, New York.’
‘Really?’ she laughed, and the two fell to comparing the rival merits of the Hudson and the Tiber.
He proved most friendly, carefully explaining to the party the significance of the service and the meaning of the different symbols. Mrs. Royston looked reproachfully at her nephew, whose stories, it transpired, did not accord with fact.
‘You really couldn’t expect me to know as much as a professional, Aunt Eleanor,’ he unblushingly expostulated. My explanations were more picturesque than his, at any rate; and if they aren’t true, they ought to be.’
The last candle was finally out, and for a moment the great interior remained in darkness. Then a noise like the distant rattle of thunder symbolized the rending of the veil, and in an instant lights sprang out from every arch and pier and dome. A long procession of cardinals, choristers, and acolytes wound singing to the high altar—the ‘Altar of the World.’
Marcia stood by the railing and watched their faces as they filed past. They were such thoughtful, spiritual, kindly faces that her respect for this great power—the greatest power in Christendom—increased momentarily. She felt a sort of shame to be there merely as a spectator. She looked about at the faces of the peasants, and thought what a barren, barren existence would be theirs without this church, which promised the only joy they could ever hope to have.
When the ceremony of washing the altar with oil and wine was ended, the young priest bade them a friendly good evening. He could not wait for the holy relics, he said; they had supper at the monastery at seven o’clock. He hastily added, however, in response to the smile trembling on Margaret’s lips, ‘Not that they are not the true relics and very holy, but I have seen them several times before.’
The relics were exhibited to the multitude from St. Veronica’s balcony far above their heads. Paul whispered to Marcia with a little laugh:
‘Our friend the cardinal would be gratified, would he not, to see his heretics bowing before St. Veronica’s handkerchief? Look,’ he added, ‘at that peasant woman in her blue skirt and scarlet kerchief. She has probably walked fifty miles, with her baby strapped to a board. I suppose she thinks the child will have good fortune the rest of his life If he just catches a glimpse of a splinter of the true cross.’
Marcia looked at the woman standing beside her, a pilgrim from the Abruzzi, judging from her dress. She was raising an illumined face to the little balcony where the priest was holding above their heads the holy relic. In her arms she held a baby whose face she was turning upward also, while she murmured prayers in his ears. Marcia’s glance wandered away over the crowd—the poor pilgrim peasants whose upturned faces, worn by work and poverty, were softened for the moment into a holy awe. Then she raised her eyes to the balcony where the priest in his white robes was holding high above his head the shining silver cross in which was incased St. Peter’s dearest relic, the tiny splinter of the true cross. The light was centred on the little balcony; every eye in the great concourse was fixed upon it. The priest was fat, his face was red, his attitude theatrical. The whole spectacle was theatrical. A quick revulsion of feeling passed over her. A few moments before, as she watched the procession of cardinals, she had been ready to admit the spiritual significance of the scene; now she saw only its spectacular side. It was merely a play, a delusion got up to dazzle the poor peasants. This church was the only thing they had in life, and, after all, what did it do for them? What could St. Veronica’s handkerchief, what could a splinter of the true cross, do to brighten their lives? It was superstition, not religion, that was being offered to the peasants of Italy.
She looked again across the sea of upturned faces and shook her head. ‘Isn’t it pitiful?’ she asked.
‘Isn’t it picturesque?’ echoed Paul.
‘That priest up there knows he’s deluding all these people, and he’s just as solemn as if he believed in the relics himself. The church is still so hopelessly mediaeval!’
‘That’s the beauty of the church,’ Paul objected. ‘It’s still mediaeval, while the rest of the world is so hopelessly nineteenth-century. I like to see these peasants believing in St. Veronica’s handkerchief and the power of the sacred Bambino to cure disease. I think it’s a beautiful exhibition of faith in a world where faith is out of fashion. I don’t blame the priests in the least for keeping it up. It’s a protest against the age. They’re about the only artists left. If I were a priest I’d learn prestidigitation, and substantiate the efficacy of the relics with a miracle or so.’
‘It’s simply fostering superstition.’
‘Take their superstition away and you deprive them of their most picturesque quality.’
‘You don’t care for anything but what’s picturesque!’ she exclaimed in a tone half scornful.
Paul did not answer. The ceremony was over and the crowd was beginning to pour out. They turned with the stream and wedged their way toward the right-hand entrance, near which their carriages were waiting. Paul manœuvred very adroitly so that the crowd should separate them from the rest of the party at the door.
‘I will tell you what I care for most,’ he said in her ear as they pushed out into the portico. ‘I care for you.’
She perceived his drift too late and looked back with an air of dismay. The others were lost in the moving mass of heads.
Paul saw her glance and laughed. ‘You’re going to take good care that we shan’t be alone together, aren’t you?’
Marcia echoed his laugh. ‘Yes,’ she acknowledged frankly; ‘I’m trying to.’