“Do you know—” the Minister exclaimed angrily, crossing his arms upon his breast, while the Under-Secretary of State extended his hand graciously towards him to check the indignant words.
“Gently, gently, gently!” said he. “Allow me. I find this most entertaining.”
The Under-Secretary of State was short and round, and full of respect for his own secretaryship, like an egg in the conscious possession of a sacred chick. As a man he was far inferior to the Minister, and very unlike him. He had none of the intellectual curiosity of his superior, and had consented to be present at this interview simply to please him. His superior, possessed of a keen wit, was in the habit of throwing his own light now on one, now on another of the persons who revolved around him, and, at such moments, lie was apt to believe that they shone of themselves, as perhaps the sun may believe is the case with the orbs that pay their court to it. The Under-Secretary of State reflected light upon the Minister, and the Minister reflected admiration upon the Under-Secretary of State. The Minister had desired his presence at this interview, not comprehending that this little Mercury of his planetary system, having resolved in his youth to free himself from the supernatural, which hampered the most spontaneous movements of his selfish nature, had come to hate the supernatural with much the same hatred which the sick conceive for the man who, they know, has gloomily diagnosed their illness. As these unfortunates seek to persuade themselves that the prophet is not worthy of faith, and, whilst his prophecy is gradually being fulfilled, become more and more impatient, and struggle ever harder to overthrow that threatening authority, so this man, the more he felt his youthful vigour declining, felt materialistic dogmas losing credit, and from time to time perceived in his heart certain stabbing apprehensions of a formidable truth which, wakened by degrees, became the more embittered in his hatred hidden beneath careless irony.
“Look here, my good sir,” said he, when he had, by his words and gesture, made room for himself in the conversation. “You talk a great deal about false and true gods. I don’t know whether yours be false or true. He may be true, but He is certainly unreasonable. A God who made the world as he chose, in such a way that it must wag as it does, and then comes and tells us that we must make it wag in a different way—well now, you know! He is certainly not a reasonable God! You have taken the liberty to empty out a whole bagful of abuse, a bagful of accusations against statesmen; they are calumnies, especially if you apply them to that gentleman over there, or to me; but I am willing to admit that politics are not a suitable business for saints. He who made the world did not intend that they should be! He is to blame for that. Nevertheless, some one must attend to politics. At present we are doing this, and if we ourselves be not saints, at least you see how patiently we deal with saints. And listen,”
The Under-Secretary looked at his watch.
“It is getting late,” he said, “and saintliness may encounter some dangers, at such a late hour, in the streets of Rome. You had better go, now.”
He stretched out his hand towards the electric bell, meaning to summon the usher.
“Signor Ministro!” Benedetto exclaimed, with such vehemence that the Under-Secretary remained motionless, his arm extended, as though frozen in the act. “You fear for the State, for the Monarchy, for liberty, you fear the socialists and the anarchists, but you should be far more afraid of your colleagues, who scoff at God! for socialism and anarchism are merely fevers, while scoffing is even as gangrene! As for you,” he added, turning to the Under-Secretary, “you deride One who is silent. Fear His silence!”
Before either of the two potentates could speak a word, or move, Benedetto had left the room.