Excited anticipation kept Irene awake during the whole night previous to the great occasion. She rose with the dawn, and laid ready her black dress and black lace veil, the traditional costume of all pilgrims received by the Pope.

The ceremony was to take place at eleven o’clock, but at ten Irene drove up to the Vatican, hoping to be one of the first to arrive. Alas! an extended line of carriages had already long been blocking the way to the Portone di Bronzo, and, advancing slowly one by one, setting down ladies in black lace and gentlemen in dress clothes. Like Irene, they had all counted on arriving first, and all contemplated, with undisguised astonishment, the dense crowd slowly making its way up the stairs. The predominating impression among this crowd was far less one of religious emotion than of excited curiosity. There were many Americans and Germans, who had come to see a rare sight, in order to boast about it later on in their own countries. The eyes of these tourists sparkled with delight as they gazed at the papal guards, who, in their mediÆval costumes and their peculiar hats, looked as if they had just stepped out of pictures, as indeed did also the papal lackeys, in cherry-coloured brocade, with silk stockings and buckled shoes.

Irene loved the Vatican. This mediÆval fortress, with its numberless houses, towers, courtyards, cemeteries, and gardens appealed strongly to her imagination. She loved, perhaps most of all, the splendid halls with their frescoes and their beautiful antique statues. This, she thought, was true luxury, in comparison with which the luxury of modern palaces, with their commonplace silk-panelled walls and their carpets and pictures, grew pale and seemed almost vulgar. In the magnificent halls of the Vatican the walls and ceilings were covered with frescoes by Raphael and Michael Angelo, and the ornaments consisted of antique porphyry sarcophagi, ancient mosaics, such as have never been equalled in more modern times, and colossal marble vases and fonts, excavated from ancient baths and shrines. Modern art has been able to add nothing to all these priceless treasures.

And now Irene was gazing with rapture at the frescoed walls of the immense Sala Clementina, into which, little by little, the extraordinarily mixed assemblage, whose like one can hardly meet anywhere, was making its way. There were foreigners shivering in furs; aristocratic Roman ladies in elegant black dresses, long white gloves, and family pearls; prelates; cardinals; nuns in white starched headdresses; Capucins in sandals, and with ropes round their waists; little girls in white dresses and lace veils, with curls framing their flushed, excited faces; officers of the papal guard; dominicans in white cloth cassocks; attachÉs of the various foreign embassies in gold embroidered uniforms—all this formed one heterogeneous, palpitating mass of humanity. The variety of the crowd pleased and interested Irene. It struck her that all this was just as it should be in the Palace of the Roman Pontiff, the only sovereign who acknowledged neither rank nor position nor class distinctions, and who did not surround himself with a Chinese wall, guarded by a handful of privileged people, in no way more deserving than their fellows. “It is in most countries these privileged classes,” thought Irene, “who by energetically pushing to a safe distance from the precincts of the throne all who really work for the good of their country, always manage artificially to create enemies for their King.” The Pope believed in a very different policy. He was accessible to everybody, without distinction of nationality, faith, or social position, and he was ready to receive and to bless everyone alike. Perhaps, indeed, it may be owing to this wise policy that no attempt has ever been made on his life, in spite of the fact that the Vatican employs neither spies nor secret guards. Such a Court, thought Irene, should have existed under Constantine the Great or Louis IX.

The ceremony of presenting consecrated candles to the Pope (dei ceri benedetti) was to take place in the neighbouring Sala del Trono. At one end of this lofty, narrow, frescoed hall stood, under a baldaquin, the golden throne of the Pope; at the other end, a great crucifix supported by an angel. On either side of the central passage, kept clear by the Swiss guards, were long benches, on which were already seated various pilgrims, all trying to get as near as possible to the throne. The best places had already long been taken by clergy of all nationalities, with enormous opera-glasses and firm intentions to miss not the smallest detail of the interesting spectacle. Subdued excitement reigned supreme in the half-darkened hall, with its drawn red blinds and its sparse, electric lights. There was a hushed murmur of low-toned conversation—everyone spoke in a whisper, except, of course, the Americans, who exchanged silly little remarks and impressions in unceremonious, strident tones. A Frenchman, with a small pointed beard was, in a loud voice, relating to someone something about an inn in Naples, where one could get excellent wine and macaroni. With the impudence of a dull-minded Atheist, he smacked his lips over various details, keenly enjoying the paradox contained in the mere fact of discussing such things at the Vatican.

Here and there in the crowd, however, could also be seen the rapturous faces of youthful priests and young girls. Full of religious exaltation, trembling with emotion, they kept their shining eyes fixed on the door before which stood the papal guards.

At last there was a wave of movement. The crowd rose, made as though it would fall on its knees, but thought better of the intention, and remained standing. Surrounded by his Court, His Holiness, in white raiment and a little white cap, passed to the throne, and, throwing a quick glance over the assemblage, took his place.

Along the central passage, between the benches, a procession of priests advanced, two and two, holding in their hands long painted tapers, covered with funny little fringed extinguishers. They approached the throne, handed the tapers to attendants, fell on their knees, and kissed the Pope’s ring. On the beautiful face of the Pontiff shone a radiant smile. He said a few words to each one, sometimes whispered in their ears, and often laughed. This was not the face of a mighty sovereign, but only that of a good, kind old man, who had long ago learnt that all sorrows, all dreams, all hopes, are soon over, and that life is short, and does not contain anything specially good or attractive. He was deeply sorry for all those expectant pilgrims, exciting themselves about nothing at all, awaiting Heaven knows what, and needlessly tiring themselves out; and all he could do was to help them with a kind word, a warm glance, and with the love that illumined his beautiful features. It seemed to Irene that, for the first time in centuries, a truly Christian pastor reigned in Rome, and one who in spirit resembled the first Christian apostles, the builders of the Church. What a striking contrast between this Pope and his surrounding Court! They, too, were all smiling at the pilgrims; but what hypocrisy, what falseness and flattery, breathed in those smiles! Their crafty faces were cold and indifferent. For them, this ceremony was only one of the countless comedies in which they had constantly to play parts. Two of these papal courtiers, both still young and handsome, were obviously posing before the aristocratic Roman ladies, among whom they probably had admiring friends.

The ceremony lasted a long time. The tapers, in the hands of the priests, moved along in endless procession. Everyone was tired and hot, all faces were flushed. The courtiers around the throne left off smiling, and made no attempt to hide their fatigue. Only the Pope alone smiled as warmly and caressingly as before upon each man who knelt before him. For him, this was no ceremony, this was a human service, which he rendered joyfully.

At last, the final tapers were presented. His Holiness rose, blessed the bowing crowd, and left the hall. There was a general rush for the door. Close to Irene, a young French girl was heatedly disputing some point with her mother.

“Mais, il t’a donnÉ sa bÉnÉdiction, ma chÈre,” persuaded the mother. “He has blessed us all. What more do you want?”

But the girl was not consoled, and only looked sadly at the door, behind which the Pope had disappeared.

Irene understood: she, too, felt sad at the thought that she would never again see that beautiful Christian smile.

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