Like most Roman pensions, that in which Irene was staying was teeming with old maids of all nationalities. There must be some mysterious wind that blows them from all corners of the earth to the Eternal City. They go there in the hope of finding peace and spiritual rest, and their hope is almost always justified. What wonder indeed? For Rome is not a town; it is a picturesque cemetery, glorified by a golden sunset. On active, life-loving people it produces a gloomy impression; but to those who let life slip past them this cemetery is dear and precious. In other towns these lifeless people feel strange and out of place; the storm and stress, the feverish rush of life in a modern city shocks and angers them. In Rome one cannot think either of the present or the[39] future. One’s thoughts linger in the past, and one is interested only in those who have long ago crumbled into dust in their graves.
Irene did not like old maids. She saw in these “brides of Christ” something incomplete, something eternally expectant. She avoided their society, and associated preferably with married women, calling herself jokingly an “old bachelor,” an appellation that struck her as less disagreeable than the more usual one, which she refused to admit.
However, having unavoidably come into contact with most of her fellow visitors at the pension, she discovered that the maiden ladies of Rome were unlike their sisters elsewhere. They had peculiarly bright, gay, sometimes even radiant faces. Irene also noticed that between four and five o’clock in the afternoon some of them daily began to show signs of agitation. They blushed, made attempts at personal elegance, smartened up their modest black dresses by the addition of a lace collar or a bunch of fresh violets, solicitously saw to the arrangements of their little tea-tables, and constantly threw impatient[40] glances at the door. The anxiously expected guests always turned out to be severe and majestic Catholic priests, before whom the ladies were tremulously shy. Irene assumed that the latter were probably newly converted Catholics, and her supposition was confirmed by a charming middle-aged English lady of an impoverished but famous old family, to whom Irene felt greatly drawn. Lady Muriel related that she had, the previous year, during a stay with relations in Ireland, made the acquaintance of a Catholic priest, “a most remarkable man,” and that now she was happy to say she had been converted to the Catholic faith.
“I had thought,” she murmured, “that life was over for me, but now I see that it is only just beginning, and that happiness is before me. The Catholic faith is so warm, so tender, so consoling!”
After this, Irene observed the Fathers and their spiritual daughters with redoubled interest. She was particularly attracted to an old French Dominican, called Père Etienne. His mother had been an Italian, and he had[41] inherited from her the Roman type. “The face of a proud patrician,” thought Irene to herself. Like all Romans, Père Etienne was severe and forbidding, but when he laughed, which happened often, and always unexpectedly, his face became astonishingly kind and sympathetic, and almost childlike.
Lady Muriel introduced him to Irene, and from her very first conversation with him Irene felt such a sympathy for Père Etienne, that, to her own astonishment, she poured out to him the whole story of her life, with all its doubts and fears and disappointments. The priest listened attentively, but evidently with disapproval, and when, in answer, he laughed a little at her faith—not the orthodox faith, of course, but her own personal ideas—Irene felt like a silly little girl who has received a scolding.
“You have invented this faith yourself,” he said. “It has nothing in common with Christianity. You Russians are all revolutionaries. Your priests do not teach you the principal thing, the love and fear of God and of His divine wisdom and might. Your attitude[42] towards God is quite unceremonious. You make conditions and contracts with Him as if He were a simple mortal. You have not advanced far beyond the ideas of your fellow-countrymen the Samoyedes, who first make sacrifices to their wooden gods and then beat them if they do not grant their prayers. When you Russians think you are passing from Orthodoxy to Catholicism, you are actually passing from paganism to Christianity.”
“And where did you get the notion,” he asked on another occasion, “that Christ promised His followers happiness in this life? On the contrary, Christ said repeatedly, ‘My kingdom is not of this world.’ And, indeed, how could He reign here, among the pitiful creatures who people this earth, worms that strive only for empty, worldly pleasures, and cannot raise their eyes to the stars? Were He to appear anew among them, with His mild humility and saintliness, would the vulgar mind understand Him? No; our present-day Christians would laugh Him to scorn, and though they would not, perhaps, lead Him to Golgotha, they would certainly turn away[43] with a mocking smile. The kingdom of Christ is indeed beyond the grave, in another and more perfect world, to be attained only by purified souls who, already during their lifetime, have renounced earthly joys, and, by means of meditation, fasting, and prayer, have conquered the body, and their lower natures. Great joy and happiness awaits them in Heaven, and it is thither, my daughter, that your hopes must be directed. It is in the Kingdom of the Future that you must expect justice, and not in this vain world, from which but few will succeed in saving their souls.”
The priest spoke with enthusiasm. His face shone with the light of inspiration. It was as though his eyes already saw the bliss of Christ’s kingdom and those Heavenly joys of which he was so firmly convinced.
His words made a great impression on Irene. Until that time, she had never thought much about the future life. “Why trouble oneself,” her common sense had argued, “about something that no one has ever seen? What must be, will be, and premature curiosity is useless.”
[44]
Now, however, hearing these burning words of Père Etienne, she involuntarily thought to herself: “Is it possible that he really believes what he says?” And at the same time, she felt that the inspired enthusiasm of the kind old priest was beginning to influence her. Like most people of our day, Irene was interested in hypnotism, and it had not infrequently, in moments of despair, occurred to her to apply for help to some famous hypnotist. She had been restrained only through fear of the consequences that might accrue from putting herself under the power of a perfect stranger. Supposing, having cured her of her gloomy state of mind, he should turn her into a criminal, and make her steal or murder?
Now, however, looking into the noble face of the old priest, Irene understood and felt that he could lead her along the right path. Oh! if he could succeed in giving her back her former faith! He had convinced other poor girls. And what happiness shone from their pale faces!
Irene caught at Père Etienne as a drowning man at a straw. It is thus that a man[45] suffering from an incurable disease flies to some quack or self-styled magician, gazes excitedly at mysterious herbs, and is already half assured that in them, and only in them, lies salvation. As for Père Etienne, the kind-hearted old man enthusiastically and zealously threw himself into the work of saving Irene’s soul, and arranging her life.
“You are deeply mistaken,” he assured her, “when you think that you have lost time uselessly, and have lived your life in vain. On the contrary, you have achieved much. You have passed through all your troubles with a pure heart. You have not made compromises with your conscience. You have looked on sadly while goodness and justice suffered, and sin was loaded with honours; but the idea has never occurred to you—as it does, alas! to many—that if sin is so successful, why not join its followers? You have resisted the temptation of such a thought. Your soul was dearer to you than the glitter of worldly success. You struggled with wicked thoughts, and emerged victoriously from the struggle. This is a great happiness, my daughter.[46] Thank God for giving you a strong will and a pure heart. It is a sign that you are one of His chosen ones. But you must not stop half-way. Throw off that spirit of despair! Forget all earthly cares! Draw yourself apart from the world and its ways, and consecrate yourself to God. It is necessary for you, without losing more time, to enter a convent.”
“A convent?” exclaimed Irene.
“Yes, a convent. You need silence and rest. With your nature, life will always perturb and dismay you. You do not understand that the triumph of the wicked is temporary, and that they are all on the eve of their undoing. You are unable to realize this. It is necessary for you to cut yourself off once and for all from every contact with them, to withdraw yourself into silence, and to occupy yourself with prayer and the reading of sacred books. You are proud to call yourself a Christian, but do you intimately know the Holy Writ? Have you often in your life read the Gospel? Be sincere—confess!”
Irene was obliged to confess, with a blush, that she had never once read it through in[47] its entirety, and had contented herself with what religious instruction she had received at school, and with the extracts from the Gospel that she had heard read out at church.
“There! That’s just it. I had foreseen that,” exclaimed the priest. “And yet it is only on reading and studying the Gospel that many things become clear. Read it, and a divine peace will steal into your heart. This great Holy Book will take, for you, the place of all others. Day by day, your former despair will be replaced by hope, and your soul will be filled with joy and rapture. You have suffered agonies of doubt, and you well know how unbearable they are. Now you stand on the threshold of that incomparable bliss that only true faith can give. Et Dieu viendra causer avec vous, ma fille. Vous serez une de ses élues, et Il vous honorera de Sa Parole. Remember the elect in the Bible, who were found worthy of intercourse with God, but who nevertheless remained human.”
“But how can I?” said Irene reflectively “Leave the world? Leave all human ties[48] and associations for ever? But that is terrible!”
“What has that world, what have those human ties given you? Can you call to mind a single hour, a single moment of real happiness, even the shadow of happiness?”
Irene had to admit the absence even of that shadow.
“There! You see it yourself. You are afraid of a convent; but, do you know? you have been a nun for a long time.”
Irene opened her eyes wide.
“Yes; it is so. Look round at your own life. You live virtuously, you hardly associate with men at all. Balls and theatres have long ceased to interest you. You dress in dark colours, and you yourself told me only recently that you eat very little meat, but prefer living mostly on vegetable diets. You have no specially near and dear relations, and feel a contempt even for your country. What, then, can attach you to the world?”
“Really—I don’t know. Liberty, independence?”
“Yes; but in a convent, also, you will retain[49] the liberty to think, to read, to enjoy and love nature—and your requirements do not go beyond this. If, for instance, you were in love, and were dreaming of someone, this would be a great obstacle to convent life, and I should, in such a case, be the first to dissuade you from it. But I believe such is not the case?”
And Père Etienne gazed scrutinizingly into her face.
“Oh! you can set your heart at rest about that,” laughed Irene. “Men never played a great part in my life, and lately I have left off paying any attention to them at all. Besides, I really don’t think I have any temperament.”
“Perhaps you may be greatly mistaken!” The exclamation fell from the lips of Père Etienne accidentally. He was evidently provoked at his own careless words, and hastened to add that he had little acquaintance with Northern natures.
“But,” he continued, “if man’s love does not attract you, that is evidently a special grace of God, and it shows His particular mercy to you. Now is the time to flee to a convent,[50] while yet no human influence can disturb your peace. A late love would be a great misfortune for you. To be happy in the married state, one must enter it in early youth, before the character of the girl is completely formed. Only on these conditions does the young wife submit to all the requirements of married life, and grow gradually accustomed to them. She understands the character of her husband, adjusts herself to it, and so finds her happiness. You, having passed all your youth on coldly polite terms with men, have estranged yourself too much from them. You know nothing about their characters, and neither they nor you could ever give happiness, one to the other. There would only be mutual misunderstanding and great suffering. Pray that this cup may be for ever removed from you.”
“Oh! I assure you, the question does not interest me in the least. Absence of faith troubles me infinitely more. How can I enter a convent, when I do not, perhaps, believe what is most important of all?”
Père Etienne smiled indulgently.
[51]
“Faith,” he answered, “like everything else in the world, is not given to us all at once, but only after long and patient effort. Carry out your monastic duties, go to church and pray at the given times, read sacred books, and, little by little, faith will penetrate into your heart.”
“But, allow me! How is this? Do you advise me to pray at first mechanically, almost without believing?” asked Irene incredulously. “But that would be hypocrisy, a mockery of religion!”
“Do not children begin by praying mechanically? This does not prevent their praying consciously and sincerely later on. It will be so with you also. Do not let this dismay you.”
Père Etienne did not hurry her to decide; but the thought of taking the veil had sown its seed in Irene’s heart.
“Yes,” she thought. “Père Etienne is right. After a certain age, it is best for unmarried women to bury themselves in convents. In the world, everything only irritates and tortures their souls: little children, with[52] their adorable little faces, happy lovers, gazing tenderly into each other’s eyes, passionate music singing of love, all this happy, earthly life, in which they have no place. In a convent, on the other hand, far from worldly books, papers, news, rumours, their nerves are gradually quieted, and a regular life and untroubled sleep cures their tortured souls.”
A little earlier, the idea of being converted to the Roman faith would have frightened Irene; but, having lived a few months in Rome, she had grown to love the Catholic church and clergy. From the first days of her arrival, she had been interested in the students of the various theological colleges and seminaries, whom, in their picturesque costumes, some scarlet, some mauve, some black with coloured belts, one meets in Rome at every step. Irene loved to observe their intelligent faces, and their attentive, scrutinizing glances.
It seemed strange to her, at first, to see these future priests on the Pincio at the fashionable hour, contemplating elegant ladies in splendid carriages, or to meet them at teas and dinners in the fashionable hotels. But,[53] on thinking this over, she came to the conclusion that this, to her, new and unaccustomed Catholic system of educating the priesthood was perfectly rational. In order to wield an influence over the great social world, it is indispensable to know its thoughts and ideals, and to share its manners, its bringing up, and its education.
In their free time the students see Rome, visit museums and picture-galleries, learn to distinguish one school of art from another, and to decipher the inscriptions and hieroglyphics on ancient sarcophagi. The theological colleges belong to various countries, and among the students—Englishmen, Germans, Frenchmen and Poles—are many people of good society, and sons of famous aristocratic families.
Irene reflected with some bitterness that only in Russia is the guardianship of religion left in the hands of grasping peasants. The very name of a seminarist is connected, in Russia, with the idea of coarseness. The education, the mental development of the priesthood is on the lowest[54] level, and social life is entirely unknown to them. A youth who has barely finished his course at the seminary, is hurriedly ordained, and rushed off to some village in the depths of the country, where the sheep of his fold, rough, wild peasants, teach their young pastor to drink. Should he have the luck to be sent to a large town, his knowledge of life and of social ways and customs is so small that he can do no good whatever to his parishioners. On the contrary, he irritates them by clumsy tactlessness when hearing confessions, by wild sermons, and an unceremonious attitude towards the holiest things. He turns his church into a shop, where he sells ikons, candles, calendars, and countless other trifles, from which he tries to make as good an income as he can. Sick at heart, Irene remembered how priests at home, while holding out the cross to be kissed by worshippers before leaving church, continued mumbling a special service they were supposed to be celebrating after Mass in honour of some saint, standing the while with their[55] backs to the ikon of the said saint, and hardly troubling to give the responses to the co-officiating deacon. She remembered also a scene witnessed at a service before a miracle-working ikon, in a provincial monastery, where the drunken priest and the equally drunken deacon had quarrelled and abused each other in the intervals between the prayers. Unhappily, indeed, such and similar occasions were none too rare, and they rankled in Irene’s mind, wounding her heart and shaking the foundations of her respect for Orthodoxy. Just before her departure from Russia, she had happened to be present at a little improvised religious meeting arranged at the house of a friend for a small group of schoolgirls of the higher social circles. They all arrived looking very excited and inspired, and their little youthful faces wore serious and attentive expressions. How much holiness and goodness could at such a moment have been sown in those innocent young souls by an enlightened pastor! And how did the Russian priest, invited to speak to these children, use the occasion? The[56] serious, solemn old veteran mounted the platform and spoke for a whole hour about the advisability of eating during Lent, only the particular kind of butter prescribed for such periods, and the sinfulness of eating the ordinary kind!
Irene had watched the faces of the listening girls, and had seen reflected on them surprise, uncertainty, and at last flushes of indignation. They had come for a piece of bread, and had been given a stone.
Nothing of this kind was to be seen in Roman churches. The priests officiated with reverence at the altars, assisted by their little acolytes, while the r?le of the deacon and the sub-deacons and the choir was carried out by the congregation itself. Seated on chairs, with prayer-books in their hands, the people followed the service, gave the responses, and sang the prayers. Sermons were preached by gifted and eloquent preachers, usually in the evening, quite apart from any service, and these sermons always drew large and eager crowds of listeners.
In Russia, Irene had gained the impression[57] that the Catholic Church was nothing so much as dry and scholastic, stifling all individual thought, and destroying all culture. In Rome, this erroneous idea was soon dissipated, and she realized that Catholicism had, on the contrary, through all the centuries of its existence, faithfully served the cause of progress. The Roman Popes had all been connoisseurs of art. They had surrounded themselves with great painters and sculptors, had given them orders, and had encouraged them in every possible way. They had collected and religiously preserved old books and manuscripts, had organized extensive excavations and researches, and had decorated the halls of the Vatican and the Lateran with the antique statues they had discovered.
Catholic schools and colleges had educated numbers of highly talented people. Even that famous negator of Christianity, Renan, was also a pupil of one of these institutions. The Catholic system of education does not stifle the intelligence—on the contrary, it gives freedom and encouragement to the youthful[58] imagination. Until now, in spite of every kind of persecution, monks and nuns are looked upon in Western Europe as the best and most capable educators of the young. They put their whole souls into their work, and receive in return the love and respect of their pupils.
Irene thought of her own spiritual isolation, her loneliness and despair, during the old days at home in Petrograd. She had had nowhere to go, no one to whom to apply for comfort and advice, and each and everyone of her acquaintances had been as lonely and spiritually friendless as herself. In Russia, she had considered the accepted cold relations between the faithful and their spiritual fathers as perfectly natural; now, she had seen and appreciated the value of very different conditions.
Père Etienne was an old man, and suffered severely from asthma, so that to reach Irene’s room on the second floor was no small matter, and left him out of breath for some time after his arrival there. In spite of this, however, he considered it his duty to go and see her[59] every day, to comfort her, to dissipate her doubts, and to renew her courage. It was her soul that was precious to him, and he exerted all his powers to save this soul, and to lead it into the right channel.
All this astonished Irene. She had seen in her father’s house how learned men, almost all, as a rule ended by being Atheists and by regarding all religions as childish sentimentalities.
How could these Catholic priests with their extensive education and intellectuality believe in na?ve Christian legends? She had imagined that the Catholic Church had long ago abandoned these legends, but that having in its cleverness realized what centuries are needed for the transforming of an old religion into a new one, had allowed them to remain unrefuted, and to continue answering, as they did most satisfactorily, the spiritual necessities of millions of people. There are, of course, naturally virtuous souls who will always remain honest and true, and will always hate sin, to whatever religious opinions or negations they may adhere. But are there many[60] such? The majority of the human race is still so uncultured that religion is the only means of keeping them more or less on the right path—religion, the fear of hell, and the hope of heaven! And so, thought Irene, the Catholic Church had decided, for the time being, to pretend to believe everything; and, for the happiness of the people, for the sake of law and order and culture, to resign not a single legend, nor a single dogma. And Irene, with all her heart, justified and applauded this magnificent deception!
She had a great wish to see the Pope, and one day mentioned this desire to Père Etienne. To her astonishment, however, he answered coldly that this would be too great an honour for her, and that he was not yet sufficiently convinced of the sincerity of her faith to consider such an honour justifiable.
“But,” murmured Irene timidly, “I am surely not asking for anything so extraordinary? His Holiness receives hundreds of Englishwomen and Americans every week.”
“Yes!” exclaimed the old man indignantly, “and this is indeed a great abuse. These[61] foreigners manage to get received, through sheer curiosity, and in order to be able to say to their friends at home: ‘We have been to Rome, and we have seen both the Pope and an aristocratic Italian fox-hunt. Both were very interesting.’ Don’t you see that for us—for true believers—this is an insufferable insult?”
Irene felt confused and embarrassed. When, however, a short time later some friends offered her a ticket for one of the great papal functions, she could not resist the temptation, and, saying nothing to Père Etienne, accepted, and decided to go to the Vatican.