Italy— m-ym-ym-ym-ym— well, Italy? A geographical expression: no more. Now then the others. The German Emperor? His Majesty had nominated Courtleigh. Now why? The Cardinal of Pimlico, smiling, really did not know. He was much obliged, he was sure. Perhaps the young man thought that, by nominating one of his own uncle's subjects (and a very unworthy one) he would induce his said uncle to return the compliment and nominate a German. And would the uncle so oblige? Courtleigh thought not. The aforesaid uncle was quite as self-willed as, and infinitely more tactful than, and the last person in the world to let his leg be pulled by, his imperial nephew. Well then what was the King of England's attitude? Courtleigh did not know: but he believed— indeed he had had it from Mr. Chamberlain— Yes, and the Lord Chamberlain said?— Not the Lord Chamberlain:— Mister Chamberlain— the Prime Minister— had said that His Majesty was not by way of meddling with matters which did not concern him. The Compromissaries pronounced the King of England's conduct to be most observable. And the Cardinal of Pimlico added that in any case he (as a Compromissary) was ineligible: while the Cardinal of Baltimore calculated that America also would stand out of this deal.
A definite decision evaded capture. Satisfaction seemed to be such a very long way up in the air. Not one of the nine was sensible of an overwhelming irresistible impulse to select any particular individual as Pope. That is such an invidious undertaking: the spirit faints at its immensity. But the Compromissaries subconsciously were drawing near and nearer to each other, and away from the rest, who, in their turn cohered in curiosity. The fourth conference was an unusually futile one. Mundo frankly and abruptly stated his conviction that the Lord God was not intending Himself to take a Vicegerent out of the Sacred College: whereat Their Eminencies laughed; and adjourned, conversing of other and secular affairs.
Courtleigh went out on della Volta's arm. "Eminency," he said, "I have known you now for nearly twenty years: and, whenever I see you, I always fancy that I have met you somewhere in other circumstances. You have never been in London? I thought not. And I suppose you haven't what they call a Double? I don't mean that your type is common. Far from it. But, at times, I seem— You remind me of— And yet I do not know of whom—"
And another night enshrouded the palace on the Vatican Hill.
As Cardinal Courtleigh was trying to shave himself next morning, the phantom of his friend della Volta invaded his mental vision: suddenly, resemblance and remembrance clashed together striking a spark. By the light of it, he saw and knew— something. He laughed shortly: and grew grave. He was deeply engrossed with his dispatch-box until the hour of conference. The matters which he laid before the other Compromissaries caused several precedents to be set aside and some to be created. And, at 9 P. M., forty-two cardinals, wearing the habits of ordinary priests, drove away in cabs towards the railway-station: while the Cardinal-Chamberlain unlocked the inside of the door of the Conclave. Hereditary-marshal Ghici, summoned from his watching chamber to unlock the outside, was flabbergasted by an invitation to declare whether the Vatican was a prison for cardinals as well as for popes? He did hate being mocked by a boiled lobster!
Fifteen comparatively speechless Eminencies spent a few weeks there in quiet leisure, reading in the library, admiring the pictures and the sculptures, sometimes strolling in the gardens. One of them seriously began to study botany; and the Cardinal-Dean, with a view to a future Bull, composed a very scathing indictment of that hypocritical anomaly called Christian Socialism. And all the time the pontifical army guarded the inside of every entrance, fraternizing through the gratings with the national army outside. But special correspondents of the London newspapers in Rome munched vacuity and excreted fibs, after their kind.
By twos and threes, plain (but very dignified) priests arrived: were admitted; and changed black for violet. One did not change. He was only Cardinal Courtleigh's new chaplain. The door of the Conclave was locked on both sides and bricked-up again.
Ensue another session of the Compromissaries, when their authentic act was put into prescribed form by apostolic prothonotaries. Ensued a final capitular assembly, in which the Act of the Compromise was published. Ensued a tempest of tongues and manners, dissolving (as storms do) in muttered thunders, less and less convulsive upheavals, a parcel of broken boughs and chimney-pots, stillness, peace, relief, and sun-bright April smiles.
Chapter 3
When their lords had entered the Cystine Chapel for this last exercise, the conclavists went away about their own affairs; and the door was shut. The Reverend George Arthur Rose departed with the Bishop of Caerleon who was acting-chaplain to Cardinal Mundo. They walked in the royal gallery between the Xystine and the Pauline Chapels. George was in a mood of silence. His mind (as usual) was receiving impressions: the historic scene being enacted under his notice: the magnificent masks veiling the humanity of the actors: the mysterious gloom of the stage, its smallness, its air of cavernous confinement: the sour oppressive septic odour of architectural and waxen and human antiquity. He had been told that he would have to say mass before noon; and his head ached from fasting in that indescribably stifling effluvia. He remembered that, in former days necessity frequently had forced him to abstain from all food for a hundred hours at a time. Often, during four days in the week, he had eaten nothing: but that was in the open air, on the shore of a northern sea, or among the heather on moors and mountains, where the wind and the spray gave life. Here, the fast of less than twenty hours made him sick and sulky. However, it had to be tolerated. Semphill once had told him that a course in an ecclesiastical college, and the first few years of clerical life, were as disgusting as ten years' penal servitude. He took it at that with his eyes open. It was part of the business. He determined to go through with it. Still, he was in a better position now than he ever had been before. He no longer was alone. Dr. Talacryn had seemed anxious for his company since that day in London; and George was inclined to value kindness. The Bishop of Caerleon appeared to be precisely what the new-fledged priest knew himself to need— a sympathetic expert subintelligent walking-stick, honest and sturdy as oak. Oh, for the certainty of fidelity! Presently George took out his cherished edition of Theokritos by Estienne. In spare moments, he was introducing his companion to the melody of Greek; and together they read and analyzed the twelfth idyll.
An hour later, the bishop suggested that they should go into the Pauline Chapel and say some prayers. George followed him. Prayer is a mind-cleanser— the best: anyhow it is an effort always due. They looked for a clean four-feet-of-floor: kneeled side by side; and got into communication with the Unseen. George's method was intellectual rather than formal. To him, with his keen and carefully cultivated sense of the ridiculous, the absurdity of a human individual composing complacent criticisms of Divine decrees, hashing up scriptural and liturgical tags with a proper and essentially sensuous pleasure in patchwork, seemed like gratuitous impertinence. "Dear Jesus, be not to me a Judge, but a Saviour," was all the form of words which he used. It included everything, as far as he could see. He repeated it over and over again and again like a wonderful incantation; and anon it had its psychic effect. He became in direct communication with the Invisible Omniscient, to Whom all hearts are open, from Whom no secrets are hid. It was just his own method, compiled from bitter-sweet experience. In time, he began to finger his moonstone rosary, concentrating his meditation on the Mystery of the Annunciation: his mind strenuously went to work on that: his lips swiftly enunciated the prayers. After five decades he said Salve Regina: and examined his conscience. Was there any difference in him? He felt more clear: he felt that he had effected some kind of a difference. That was relief. But was it worth anything? Wasn't it stained? Was he really strengthened by the exercise? For example, was he now filled and inflamed with pure Love? No. Was he any nearer to pure Love, fit to be thought of, even harshly, by pure Love? No. Well: he had done his best: it would come some day. God be merciful to us all poor sinners.
He looked at the bishop, two weeks his junior in years, two centuries his senior in worth of every kind. The cheerful satisfied stolidity of that one, turning from his prayers and meeting George's gaze with a homely smile, was something astounding. How different men are! Here was one envying the other his stolidity, and the other half afraid of the agility of the one. George realized that