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Authors: Morris West
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“That’s nice to hear.”
“Johann seemed happier, too; though he didn’t say very much.”
“He got a few things off his chest, including the fact that he wasn’t a believer any more.”
“Oh dear! That’s sad.”
“It’s a phase, dear.” Mendelius was sedulously casual.
“He wants to find his own way to the truth.”
“I hope you made him aware that you respected his decision.”
“Of course! You mustn’t worry about Johann and me. It’s just the old bull and the young one sparring with each other.”
“Old bull is right!” Lotte giggled happily in the darkness.
“Which reminds me, if I catch Hilde playing pat-hands with you too often, I’ll scratch her eyes out!”
“Nice to know you’re still jealous.”
“I love you, Carl. I love you so very much.”
“And I love you, darling.”
“That’s all I need to finish a perfect day. Good night, my dear, dear man!”
She rolled away from him, curled herself under the covers and lapsed swiftly into sleep. Carl Mendelius clasped his hands under his head and lay a long time staring up at the ceiling, where amorous nymphs and rapacious demi-gods disported themselves in the darkness. For all the sweet solace of loving, he was still haunted by what he had heard at dinner and by the last letter in the pile which the maid had left on his dressing-table.
It was in Italian, handwritten on heavy note-paper, embossed with the official superscription of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.
Dear Professor Mendelius, I am informed by our mutual friend the Rector of the Pontifical Biblical Institute that you will shortly be visiting Rome for the purpose of scholastic research, and that you will be delivering some discourses at the German Academy of Fine Arts.
I understand also that you plan to pay a visit to the recently retired Pontiff at the Monastery of Monte Cassino.
Since I have always had the greatest admiration for your scholarly work, it would give me great pleasure to entertain you to coffee one morning in my private apartment in Vatican City.
Perhaps you would be kind enough to call me at the Congregation any evening between four and seven so that we may arrange a mutually convenient day, preferably before you go to Monte Cassino.
I send you my salutations and my best wishes for a pleasant sojourn.
Yours in Christ Jesus, Anton Drexel, Cardinal Prefect It was beautifully done, as always: a courteous gesture and a tart reminder that nothing, but nothing, that went on in the sacred circle escaped the watchdogs of the Lord. In the old days of the Papal States they would have sent a summons and a detachment of gendarmes to enforce it. Now it was coffee and sweet biscuits in the Cardinal’s apartment and sweet seductive talk afterwards.
Well, well! Tempora mutanturl He wondered which the Cardinal Prefect wanted more: information or an assurance of discretion. He wondered also what conditions might be laid down before they would permit him to visit Jean Marie Barette.
Herman Frank had good reason to be proud of his exhibition.
The press had been generous with praise, compliments and illustrations. The galleries of the Academy were thronged with visitors Romans and tourists and there was a quite astonishing number of young people.
The works of Caspar Van Wittel, a seventeenth-century Dutchman from Amersfoort, were little known to the Italian public. Most of them had been jealously preserved in the private collections of the Colonna, the Sacchetti, the Pallavicini and other noble families. To assemble them had taken two years of patient research and months of delicate negotiation. The provenance of many was still a closely guarded secret witness the large number still denominated ‘raccolta privata’. Together they constituted an extraordinarily vivid pictorial and architectural record of seventeenth-century Italy. Herman Frank’s enthusiasm had the rare and touching innocence of childhood.
“Just look at that ! So
“Johann seemed happier, too; though he didn’t say very much.”
“He got a few things off his chest, including the fact that he wasn’t a believer any more.”
“Oh dear! That’s sad.”
“It’s a phase, dear.” Mendelius was sedulously casual.
“He wants to find his own way to the truth.”
“I hope you made him aware that you respected his decision.”
“Of course! You mustn’t worry about Johann and me. It’s just the old bull and the young one sparring with each other.”
“Old bull is right!” Lotte giggled happily in the darkness.
“Which reminds me, if I catch Hilde playing pat-hands with you too often, I’ll scratch her eyes out!”
“Nice to know you’re still jealous.”
“I love you, Carl. I love you so very much.”
“And I love you, darling.”
“That’s all I need to finish a perfect day. Good night, my dear, dear man!”
She rolled away from him, curled herself under the covers and lapsed swiftly into sleep. Carl Mendelius clasped his hands under his head and lay a long time staring up at the ceiling, where amorous nymphs and rapacious demi-gods disported themselves in the darkness. For all the sweet solace of loving, he was still haunted by what he had heard at dinner and by the last letter in the pile which the maid had left on his dressing-table.
It was in Italian, handwritten on heavy note-paper, embossed with the official superscription of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.
Dear Professor Mendelius, I am informed by our mutual friend the Rector of the Pontifical Biblical Institute that you will shortly be visiting Rome for the purpose of scholastic research, and that you will be delivering some discourses at the German Academy of Fine Arts.
I understand also that you plan to pay a visit to the recently retired Pontiff at the Monastery of Monte Cassino.
Since I have always had the greatest admiration for your scholarly work, it would give me great pleasure to entertain you to coffee one morning in my private apartment in Vatican City.
Perhaps you would be kind enough to call me at the Congregation any evening between four and seven so that we may arrange a mutually convenient day, preferably before you go to Monte Cassino.
I send you my salutations and my best wishes for a pleasant sojourn.
Yours in Christ Jesus, Anton Drexel, Cardinal Prefect It was beautifully done, as always: a courteous gesture and a tart reminder that nothing, but nothing, that went on in the sacred circle escaped the watchdogs of the Lord. In the old days of the Papal States they would have sent a summons and a detachment of gendarmes to enforce it. Now it was coffee and sweet biscuits in the Cardinal’s apartment and sweet seductive talk afterwards.
Well, well! Tempora mutanturl He wondered which the Cardinal Prefect wanted more: information or an assurance of discretion. He wondered also what conditions might be laid down before they would permit him to visit Jean Marie Barette.
Herman Frank had good reason to be proud of his exhibition.
The press had been generous with praise, compliments and illustrations. The galleries of the Academy were thronged with visitors Romans and tourists and there was a quite astonishing number of young people.
The works of Caspar Van Wittel, a seventeenth-century Dutchman from Amersfoort, were little known to the Italian public. Most of them had been jealously preserved in the private collections of the Colonna, the Sacchetti, the Pallavicini and other noble families. To assemble them had taken two years of patient research and months of delicate negotiation. The provenance of many was still a closely guarded secret witness the large number still denominated ‘raccolta privata’. Together they constituted an extraordinarily vivid pictorial and architectural record of seventeenth-century Italy. Herman Frank’s enthusiasm had the rare and touching innocence of childhood.
“Just look at that ! So
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