On the other hand, no Pope can forget what the Vatican owes to Turkey. In that hospitable land, the Roman Catholic orders, expelled from France, sought refuge. Throughout the length and breadth of the country, Catholic missions thrive and prosper. Though they rarely, if ever, make converts, they give care in sickness; comforts, education, and instruction to the Turks. And who is responsible for the cultural French language spoken in the Near East, if not the Jesuit Fathers? This extraordinary religious tolerance on the part of the Turks has always been incomprehensible. Disraeli’s protection of the Turk was born of his gratitude for the religious tolerance they extended to the Jew. Jews, who could escape massacre in Russia, found then, as they find now, a comfortable home where they are free to practice their religion and make money. What more can they want? Naturally, then, seeing what the Vatican owes to Turkey, and Turkey to the Vatican, the Pope is interested in the personality of M. Kemal Pasha, and proved very willing to hear what a Western woman, with opportunities in the past of studying Turkish home life, knows of this great Nationalist hero. Anyone who has seen the ceremonies at the Vatican must be impressed by their great spectacular beauty. The Church of Rome has given the world some of its finest art, literature and music. And at the Vatican itself, wherever the eye wanders, there is beauty—beauty of architecture, beauty of colouring. On the one side there is the gaudy costume of the Swiss Guard, with their scarlet and gold, in striking contrast to the grey courtyard and the black dresses or mantillas of the lady visitors; there are the frescoes, the statues: and over all a veil of mystery and the charm of history. From the time one’s carriage rumbles over the stones of the great unshaded courtyard to the side where the Pope’s apartments are situated, one has the sensation of walking over a book of sacred history. It is true all Rome is history. The Vatican, however, is the history of the Catholic Church from the beginning, and as you go up the marble steps you instinctively lower your voice, walking slowly and silently. For have not all the greatest figures in the world’s history passed up that staircase? There is everywhere a delightful odour of books; but where are the books? Uniformed diplomatists, high officials, generals, cardinals in their scarlet splendour, priests in black and scarlet and purple, attendants in red damask court breeches, walk noiselessly in and out. All the chairs seem so big, and the consoles and vases so huge and so valuable, that a portrait of the kindly face of Pope Pius X. is a welcome change. Seeing me looking at the peaceful, saintly face, my neighbour whispers: “C’était un vrai père.” One notices also a beautiful bust of Pope Benedict XV. Why do the photographers never do justice to his fine intelligent face?