And then one day, Father Celestino, now a very old man and feeling himself near to death, for the first time in his life asked something for himself—that they would carry him to Rome by some means or other. Before closing his eyes forever he wished to see, even if only for an instant, St. Peter’s, the Vatican and the Holy Father.
How could they refuse him? They procured a litter, placed the hermit in it and carried him right into the heart of Christendom. More than that—without loss of time, for Celestino’s hours were already numbered, they bore him up the staircase of the Vatican and brought him into a room with a thousand other pilgrims. Here they left him in a corner to wait.
He waited and waited, and finally Father Celestino saw the crowd part, and advancing from the end of the room, far, far away, a thin, white-haired figure, rather bent—the Pope.
What was he like? What kind of face had he? With inexpressible horror Father Celestino, who had always been as shortsighted as a rhinoceros, realized that he had forgotten his glasses.
But luckily the white-haired figure came toward him, growing larger as he approached until he stopped by his litter, right in front of him. The hermit wiped his tear-filled eyes with the back of his hand and rose up slowly. Then he saw the face of the Pope and recognized him.
“Oh, it’s you, my poor priest, my poor little priest!” exclaimed the old man before he could stop himself.
And then in the ancient majesty of the Vatican, for the first time in history the following scene took place: the Holy Father and an old unknown friar, come from goodness-knows-where, were holding hands and weeping together.
The War Song
THE KING LOOKED UP FROM HIS GREAT DESK MADE OF steel and diamonds.
“What in the devil are my soldiers singing?” he asked.
Outside in the Piazza of the Coronation passed battalion upon battalion marching toward the frontier and as they marched they sang. Life was good for them because the enemy was already in full flight, and down there in the distant prairies there was nothing more to reap but glory, with which they would crown themselves on their return. And even the king, in his thoughts, felt wonderfully well and sure of himself. The world was waiting to be conquered.
“It is their song, Your Majesty,” replied the first counselor; he too was clad from head to foot in armor, because this was the discipline of war.
And the king said, “But don’t they know anything more cheerful? Schroeder has written some very fine hymns for my armies. I have heard them and they are true soldiers’ songs.”
“What would you, Your Majesty?” observed the aged counselor, even more bent under the weight of arms that he could never have used in reality. “Soldiers have their whims, rather like children. Give them the most beautiful hymns in the world, they still prefer their own songs.”
“But this is not a war song,” said the king, “one might even say that when they sing it they are sad. And that can’t be the reason, I should say.”
“I should say not, indeed,” agreed the counselor with a smile full of flattering allusions, “but perhaps it is only a love song, it doesn’t mean anything else, probably.”
“And what are the words?” the king insisted.
“Indeed, I have not been informed,” replied old Count Gustavo, “I will find out.”
The battalions reached the frontier of the war, decisively defeated the enemy and extended the conquered territories—the fame of their victories resounded throughout the world, their tramping was lost in the plains even further away from the silver turrets of the royal palace. And from their camps, girded by unknown constellations, still rose the same song, not gay, but sad, not victorious and warlike, but rather, full of bitterness. The soldiers were well fed; wore soft clothing, boots of Armenian leather, warm fur coats and the horses galloped from battle to battle, always further away, the only heavy load was that of the man who bore the enemy standards. But the generals asked, “What in the devil are the soldiers still singing? Haven’t they really anything more cheerful?”
“That is how they are, Excellency,” replied the members of the general staff, standing to attention, “fine fighting lads, but they have their fixations.”
“Not a very brilliant fixation,” said the generals ill-temperedly, “it sounds as though they were crying, and what more could they want? . . . One might even say they were discontented.”
On the contrary, taken individually, they were contented, the soldiers of the victorious regiments. What more could they desire? One conquest after the other, rich booty, soon a triumphal return. The final annihilation of the enemy from the face of the earth could already be read on those young faces, glowing with health and strength.
“And what are the words?” asked the General, his curiosity aroused.
“Oh, the words! They are very silly words!” replied the members of the general staff, ever cautious and reserved from long experience.
“Silly or not, what are they?”
“I don’t know, exactly, Excellency,” said one of them, “you, Diehlem, do you know them?”
“The words of that song? No, really, I don’t. But Captain Marren is here, I’m sure he . . .”
“It’s not my strong point, Colonel,” replied Marren. “However, we might ask Marshall Peters, if you will permit . . .”
“Oh, that’s enough, so much useless talk, I should be willing to wager . . .” But the General decided not to finish the sentence.
Looking rather upset and stiff as a ramrod, Marshall Peters replied to the interrogation.
“The first verse, Most Serene Excellency, goes like this:
Over field and over valley,
Hear the bugle call, “Come
