“I am not at all surprised,” replied Gzhatski. “The Catholics know very well that a body without a head must, sooner or latter, decay and fall to pieces. They foresee the moment when Russia, to save her religion, will have to choose a head for her Church, and they hope to be able, at that moment, to persuade her to accept the Pope as this head. The election of a Patriarch would be a great blow to their designs, and would indefinitely postpone all idea of a union between the two churches. I say postpone because all Catholics are completely convinced that ultimately this union must come to pass.”
“That is exactly what I cannot understand,” exclaimed Irene. “The longer I live in Rome, the more I come to the conclusion that the two churches have really never been separated. No one but theologians is interested in dogmas. Ordinary mortals, orthodox and Catholic alike, believe in the same legends and superstitions, the same saints and martyrs, the same prayers, the same gospel, the same services. It is even astonishing that two churches, having so long ago severed all connection with each other, should have remained so astonishingly similar. Russian pilgrims, who go to Bari to pray at the shrine of Saint Nicholas, the worker of miracles, proceed from there to the shrines of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Rome, where they feel perfectly at home. What is the use of worrying about the re-union of two churches that actually have never been disunited at all?”
“You forget the political standpoint,” said Gzhatski. “Russia is growing daily and hourly, and with each year her might increases. Some day, in the not too far-distant future, her support may be of enormous importance to the Pope. What with the spread of Atheism and Freemasonry, there is nothing to ensure that the Vatican will not one fine day suddenly be turned into a National museum, and some out-of-the-way monastery in the Apennines be offered to the Pope as a residence! The Catholic nations of Europe would, in such a case, probably limit themselves, as they did on the occasion of the taking of Rome, to the sending of deputations and expressions of sympathy. It is at that moment that the Pope, like King Lear, will turn away from his proud elder daughters Regan and Goneril, on whom he has lavished so much love and care, and will remember the far-away Cordelia, whom, though she has received nothing from him, he has never ceased to regard as his daughter. There is no doubt that the Vatican has some hopes in connection with the Northern Cordelia, and—who knows?—perhaps even these hopes are not quite without foundation. In any case, a persecuted and friendless Pope would certainly appeal far more strongly to the sympathies of the Russian people than the present magnificent and triumphant Pontiff!”
XVII
The Catholic and the Orthodox Easter fell that year on the same date. It was already Passion Week, and for some days Irene saw nothing of Gzhatski. He was preparing for Easter Communion, and went every day to the Russian Church. Irene, on her side, was anxious not to miss even the least of the Catholic services and ceremonies. A spell of cold, windy weather had broken in upon the sunny springtime, and, perhaps on this account, perhaps also through the fatigue of constant long standing in church (there are no chairs in the great Roman cathedrals), Irene’s nerves were in an unbearable state of tension and restlessness. With a great effort, she turned her steps, on the Thursday evening, towards St. Peter’s, where the annual ceremony of the washing of the altar was to take place.
The immense church was filled from end to end with a dense, closely-packed crowd, the service being, however, audible only to the comparatively few who stood near the altar. For that matter, there really was not any service at all. A Cardinal sat on the central throne, and grouped around him on wooden seats and stools were the numerous grades and members of the Vatican State Clergy. They were singing in low, dull, monotonous tones, and their endless, wail-like, doleful chant produced a most disagreeable impression on the nerves. The tired, enervated crowd pressed against the wooden barriers that enclosed a free passage for the procession. Everyone felt hot and tired and hungry, and faint from the close, stuffy atmosphere. Cross Englishwomen were quarrelling with neighbouring Italian women, and pushing them unceremoniously. In perfectly audible tones they repeatedly remarked the impoliteness of people in Rome, especially at St. Peter’s on that particular occasion. Scarcely anybody was praying, the majority of those present having come simply to witness an interesting spectacle. Pretty young American girls were there with their sweethearts, and were undisguisedly amusing themselves, chattering and laughing and coquetting. At last, after three hours of responses and lamentations and misereres, the long-awaited procession appeared. In front came young attendants in lace aprons, and behind them fat old priests, looking like old women, with their smooth, round faces, their ample mauve robes, and their mauve-lined, grey, squirrel capes. Each one carried in his hand a rod with a sponge attached to it. Last of all, also carrying an enormous sponge, came a Cardinal in a red robe with a long train carried by an attendant.
The procession mounted the altar steps, and, all coverings and ornaments having been previously removed, began to wash the altar. A scent of wine spread through the church. Having concluded this ceremony, the procession passed slowly and solemnly round the altar to the accompaniment of a shower of rattles, sounded to denote the dismay and perturbation of all Nature—the thunder and earthquake that followed Christ’s death.